


Surveillance

by KaticaLocke



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 42,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaticaLocke/pseuds/KaticaLocke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese discovers his teasing may have gone too far after an unexpected turn in a case reveals more about both men than either was ready to have known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a porny one-shot, but quickly developed a plot and grew into an actual story. It is complete and I'll try to update frequently, hopefully a chapter a day as my schedule allows. Thanks for reading!

Finch shifted in his chair, absently rubbing at his aching hip, the knotted cordage of scar tissue hard beneath his slacks. The fingers of his other hand tapped out a staccato rhythm on the table, his gaze not on the open book before him, but on the phone beside it. Reese had not replied to his text, nor had he answered when Finch had called. There was no new number, so Finch couldn't really justify being annoyed, but he was, just the same. Talking to Reese couldn't ease the pain in his battered body, but sometimes it helped him forget it, just for a while.

Unable to concentrate on his reading, Finch closed the book and slid it aside, pulling the keyboard over in front of him instead. Any distraction would be welcome. Fingers dancing over the keys, he quickly called up the location of Reese's cell, the GPS putting him inside a seedy bar in one of the shadier sides of town. Finch pursed his lips, remembering how many women he'd overheard hitting on Reese, almost desperate to be picked up by a tall, dark, and handsome stranger. No doubt Reese had remembered it, too.

What Reese did on his own time was not something Finch ever intended to discuss, unless it began to affect him, the Machine, or their work. He knew -- most of the time -- what Reese was up to, but he allowed the illusion of Reese's private life remaining just that. He suspected that Reese knew -- he was smarter than the average human -- but it appeared to be a leash he didn't mind wearing, so long as the man holding the leash kept out of sight.

Finch adjusted his body yet again, trying to evade the dull, throbbing pain, like someone striking his hip with a ball-peen hammer. It wasn't unbearable -- rarely did the pain get so bad that he succumbed to pharmaceutical relief -- but it did intrude terribly on his relaxing evening.

Reese's phone had begun moving and Finch watched curiously as it exited through the rear of the bar, instead of the front door. Was there a problem? The GPS blip entered the back alley and then stopped. Finch sat forward in his chair, a slight frown creasing his brow as he began to work the computer again, deft hands and brilliant mind forging a link to the bar's CCTV, hacking the system and gaining control of the camera positioned to watch the rear door.

Finch was prepared for a number of possibilities -- Reese in a shootout or a brawl, lying in a dumpster with his throat cut or shot in the back, in a drunken stupor or shooting heroin or getting sucked off by a whore -- but when he saw the image that appeared on his screen, he could only stare. Reese was swapping spit and grinding pelvises with a young man -- twenty-something, probably a college student, short hair, and wire-rimmed glasses.

Finch adjusted his own glasses and licked suddenly dry lips as his heart-rate began to escalate, his breaths growing short and fast. His fingers twitched as the thought of turning off the feed crossed his mind, but then grew still. He was the father of the Orwellian nightmare, after all -- watching one man was hardly a crime when his brainchild was busy watching _everyone_.

Finch raised his eyebrows as Reese suddenly grabbed a handful of his new friend's hair and forced his head back, attacking the side of the young man's neck with rough kisses and gentle bites. The nameless youth responded by running his hands back through Reese's hair, something Finch himself had been tempted to do on occasion.

Suddenly, Reese let go and stepped back, and Finch watched, breathless, as Reese began unbuttoning his trousers. The young man leaned back against the wall and said something, to which Reese responded by pulling a small square _something_ out of his pocket. It glinted in the light above the door, like metal, like foil --

Finch gasped and leaned back in his chair, his slacks suddenly uncomfortably restrictive. He watched with a growing tightness in his throat and in his briefs as Reese tore open the foil packet and proceeded to use his left hand to roll the condom down over his hard cock. That strong hand, the long fingers that Finch had caught himself staring at on more than one occasion recently, moved slowly up and down the latex-wrapped shaft, drawing a low moan from Finch's lips. Thank God no one was there to hear him.

A movement within the frame drew Finch's attention and his gaze darted to the young stranger. He'd forgotten he was even there. The young man unceremoniously shoved his jeans down around his thighs and turned his back to Reese, bracing his forearms against the grimy alley wall and sticking his bare ass out. Reese pulled something else out of his pocket and Finch squinted at the screen, the grainy black and white image concealing this new surprise, but only until Reese held out his hand and began to drizzle lubricant on his fingers, the thick liquid making his skin wet and shiny looking.

" _What the hell are you doing?_ " Finch whispered, as much to himself as to Reese as Finch hastily undid his slacks and freed his aching cock. His rational, analytical mind was gibbering something about turning off the feed before he sullied his self-respect and his trousers, but the rest of him wasn't listening. He fumbled across the desk for a box of tissues, unable to tear his eyes from the screen.

Reese began to prepare the young man, his slick fingers disappearing into the shadow between those round, tight cheeks, and Finch began to stroke himself as he watched the young man arch and writhe, at the mercy of Reese's more than capable hands. After a minute, Reese spoke and the young man nodded. Reese stepped back, stroked himself a couple more times, and then seated the head of his cock at the young man's entrance. Finch found himself holding his breath.

His left hand guiding his cock, the other swept the right side of his jacket out of the way, giving Finch an unobstructed view as he sank his cock into the young man in one long, slow thrust. Drawing short, sharp breaths, Finch bit the inside of his lip, his movements quick and urgent, mirroring Reese's hard and relentless rhythm. The young man looked over his shoulder, said something, and Reese reached beneath him, his arm moving to match his thrusting hips. A moment later, the young man stiffened, throwing back his head.

"Fuck!" Finch gasped as his hips jerked, sudden and unexpected. He grabbed a handful of tissues, but not fast enough -- semen splattered his shirt and dribbled down over his knuckles. Panting, he sat stiffly, then drew a great breath and slumped in his chair, watching the screen through a fog of endorphins.

Grabbing both of the young man's hips, Reese pounded away, his thrusts growing short and urgent. His tall, lean frame grew stiff and tight, and his eyes closed, his mouth dropping open. His hips jerked a few more times, then he grew still, quiet, his face, half turned toward the camera, wearing an expression of peaceful repose.

The afterglow fading, the young man straightened up and they began putting their clothes in order. He said something and laughed as he took off his glasses and handed them to Reese, then turned and went back into the bar. Finch expected Reese to follow, but the man just stood there. After a moment, Reese ran a hand back through his disheveled hair before looking up, straight at the camera. A small, slow, satisfied smile quirked the corners of Reese's mouth as the tiny, meticulous details gleaned by Finch's rational mind fell neatly into place -- the glasses, using his left hand rather than his right to keep from obstructing the camera, pushing his jacket out of the way --

Reese winked, then turned and disappeared down the alley. Finch sat in the silence for a moment, stunned, then he coolly sat forward, wiped the tackiness from his hand, and saved the recording for further analysis. Two could play at that game. As he rose from his chair, he barely even noticed the pain in his hip as he went off to change his shirt.


	2. Chapter 2

Standing in Times Square at half past midnight, Reese was amazed at how many people crowded the wide sidewalks, couples trying to prolong a wonderful evening, tourists taking pictures of the iconic buildings and news tickers, hundreds of numbers rushing to and fro, oblivious to the cold eyes that watched them from every corner, the calculating mind, devoid of all humanity, that analyzed their every move, their every word.

Reese had wrapped up another case that afternoon, and as usual, he couldn't sleep, rehashing the events that had unfolded, second guessing his decisions and running through all the 'what if's. There was no time for any of that when lives were on the line, but afterward...

The cell rang and Reese groaned softly to himself. Not another one already. This was truly the most worthwhile and rewarding job he'd ever been given, but the frequency with which the numbers came, the never ending stream of corruption and greed, had begun to grow heavy on Reese's shoulders. Often, as he lay awake at night, he wondered if it was too much for one man to bear.

"I was just having a dream about you," Reese said, unable to resist teasing his rigid employer. Most of the time, Finch just brushed him off with a cool, deadpan remark, but on the rare occasion when he didn't, when he let slip some personal detail or hint that he might actually like Reese, it made the weight of the numbers just a little easier to bear, because it meant he wasn't in it alone. He had only carried this burden for a short time, unlike Finch who had suffered with the knowledge for years, helpless to do anything about it, and he hoped that maybe a little camaraderie could ease Finch's pain now and then.

"In the middle of Times Square, Mr. Reese?" Finch replied, his tone benign. "I somehow doubt that. Nice jacket, by the way. Is it new?"

Reese looked down at the sidewalk to keep Finch from seeing the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Got it this afternoon," Reese said. "I thought you would like it." And then before Finch could reprimand him for wasting time, he cleared his throat. "Is there another number already?"

"No, not yet," Finch said, and Reese arched his eyebrows.

"No? So you have personal reasons for watching me, then?" He glanced around Times Square, not sure which of the cameras Finch was using. Unlike that night in the alley, he had many to choose from.

"I wanted to make sure you weren't otherwise occupied before I interrupted your evening," Finch said, apparently unwilling to give away his location. "And yes, I'm contacting you for personal reasons. I realized something last week, and I just can't ignore it any longer. I know it's late, but could you come to the library?"

"Y-yeah, all right," Reese said, stunned. "I'll be right there." He had to be hearing things. There was no way Finch meant what Reese thought he meant. And yet...the show in the alley had been a week ago. He hadn't known if Finch would even see it, and afterward, when it appeared that he hadn't, Reese had been quietly thankful. He had crossed a line, one that he had intended never to flirt with again. He didn't want to risk losing the tentative friendship that he had managed to cultivate with the reclusive man. And now...

"Uh...Finch?" Reese said, trying to think of something to ask that would either confirm or deny his suspicions, but Finch didn't respond. "Finch?" Reese could hear sounds from the other end of the line, rustling and footsteps -- distant, hollow sounds. Finch had set his earpiece down, but left the line open, as he often did while they were working a number, remaining in each others ear for hours on end, only this time it was an accident. Reese started to hang up, but his curiosity got the better of him. He switched the call over to his earpiece and set out for the library.

For several blocks, the only sounds he heard were mundane ones -- a door opening, more footsteps, a soft thumping, wood creaking-and then he heard Finch sigh. "Damn it, Reese, hurry up," Finch muttered, some distance from the speaker, his voice so faint Reese almost didn't catch it. After a moment, Reese quickened his pace.

He was halfway to the library when Finch let out an uncharacteristic groan. "What the hell are you thinking?" Finch asked, still not speaking into the phone. "If you do this, he's going to look at you like the pitiful cripple that you are. Just call him back and tell him you've changed your mind. You've lived like this for so long, you can ignore it until you get used to it again." Silence fell and Reese cupped his hand over his ear, trying to block out the traffic noise, not wanting to miss a single word. "No," Finch said suddenly, "I can't do this anymore. I need him, damn it."

Reese drew up short, stumbling back as he almost walked into a light pole. Finch needed him. He might never admit it to Reese's face, but that wouldn't matter -- Reese knew the truth. _Finch needed him._ Reese hung up his phone, slipped the earpiece in his pocket, and began to run down the street.

He was out of breath as he reached the library, his gaze sweeping the empty streets as he slipped around to the back entrance and let himself inside the big, deserted-looking building. His mouth suddenly dry, he ran a hand back through his hair as he made his way down the corridors and into the main room. It appeared deserted.

"Finch?"

"Back here, Mr. Reese," came the reply. Reese crossed the room, to a back corner of the library where he'd never had cause to go before. A wooden door stood open, a light on in the small room beyond, and as Reese stepped through, his heart began to pound, his gaze taking in the scene before him. A neatly made bed stood against one wall, an old high-backed chair in the corner with a tall, brass floor lamp standing beside it, the stained-glass shade casting splashes of color on the dark, cinder block walls. Opposite the bed was a tall bookcase, the shelves bare, the books stacked in half a dozen boxes scattered about the floor, and in the middle of the room stood Finch, neat as always, but also unusually dressed down; sans jacket, his sleeves rolled back, his tie loose, the first button on his collar undone. It was as casual as Reese had ever seen him.

Finch didn't speak, he just stood and regarded Reese with an open, questioning look that betrayed nothing of what he might be thinking or feeling. Suddenly at a loss for words, Reese's gaze wandered around the room again before settling on the bed.

"Do you sleep here?" he asked, realizing only after the words had left his lips what a stupid question it was. Why else would he have a...Oh.

"On occasion, Mr. Reese," Finch said, a hint of a smirk in his voice, as though he could read Reese's mind. Scrambling to regain his composure, Reese almost wished someone was shooting at him; that was so much easier to deal with.

"So," he said, tucking his hands in his pockets and trying to play it cool, "why did you ask me here?"

"Yes, that's right," Finch said, turning away and taking a stiff, limping steps toward the empty bookshelf. "I need your help securing these shelves. I was rearranging my collection last week and I realized that they're not anchored to anything." To illustrate, he grabbed the bookcase and pulled, rocking it a few inches away from the wall. "It's a hazard, Mr. Reese, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I'd take care of it myself, but..." He let the sentence die, finishing the thought with an annoyed puff of air instead.

Reese just stared at him.

"Is there a problem?" Finch asked after a moment.

Reese shook his head. "No, I just..." He gave a self-deprecating chuckle and continued shaking his head. "I was expecting something else, I guess."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Finch said dryly, limping toward him. "There's a ladder in the utility closet down the hall and I've got a drill around here somewhere."

As Reese wandered off to find the ladder, he wondered how he could have been so wrong. Upon reflection, everything Finch had said had been perfectly innocent, but Reese had heard so much more. He was reluctant to call it wishful thinking, because that implied he _wanted_ it to be something more, which he couldn't be sure of. Yes, it was challenging and entertaining and often rewarding to try to fluster the reserved genius, but what if the allure was in playing the game, and not in winning? If he couldn't be sure, he couldn't take the chance. It wasn't fair to Finch.

Reese carried the ladder back to Finch's 'occasional' bedroom, where he found his employer placing a mason's bit in an electric drill. Shrugging out of his new jacket, he traded it to Finch for the drill and ascended the ladder. A little dust and a pair of molly bolts and L-brackets later, Reese grabbed the shelf and gave it a shake. It didn't budge.

"There you go, Finch," he said, climbing back down the ladder. "Anything else I can do while I'm here?"

"That's very domestic of you, Mr. Reese," Finch said, "but that will be all. Thank you."

"Anytime," Reese said, and he held Finch's gaze for a moment longer than necessary, because it was the truth. He glanced around the room. "Where's my jacket?"

"Out there," Finch said with a slight nod of his head as he began to take his books out of the boxes and arrange them on the shelves. "I didn't think you wanted it covered in dust, so I draped it over the back of my chair."

"You're a brilliant man, you know that?" Reese said with a smile as he walked out of the small room. "I'll see you later."

"Not if I see you first," Finch replied.

Still grinning, Reese made his way across the room to the big, old library table with its stacks of books, multiple keyboards, and half a dozen monitors. How anyone could analyze that much data simultaneously was beyond Reese. As he grabbed his jacket and lifted it off the chair, he bumped the mouse, which was for some strange reason balanced at the very edge of the table. The movement caused the wall of monitors to flicker to life and Reese stared, his gaze darting from one to the next, each filled with a black and white still from a surveillance tape.

Reese turned, unsurprised to see Finch standing in the doorway of the little bedroom, a slow, satisfied smile creeping across his face. "Good night, Mr. Reese," he said, and then he winked before disappearing back into his room. Reese stared after him for a minute, his fingers tapping absently on the back of the chair. He gave the monitors one last look, then turned and left the library. Impulse had led him to that point; his next move was going to take some serious thought.


	3. Chapter 3

"We've got a visitor," Reese said, his voice low in Finch's ear. Fingers stilled on his keyboard, Finch looked up from the monitors, staring into the distance as he gave Reese his undivided attention. "Taxi just dropped off a woman. Looks like a pro."

"And right on time," Finch said, glancing at his watch. The most recent text that Reese had intercepted had consisted of nothing more than a time, sent to a disposable cell phone. Not much to go on. Leaning back in his chair, Finch absently rubbed the back of his aching neck, feeling the hard, knotted ridge of scar tissue under his fingers.

Reese had been tailing the mysterious Mr. James Allen for two days, but had turned up nothing more interesting than the utter banality of this man's life. He had no family, no friends, and no job -- he spent his time eating in diners and taking walks in Central Park, browsing in bookstores and listening to street performers. Finch hadn't had much better luck. Mr. Allen appeared to be living off the dividends from a wide range of investments, negating his need for employment, but that was the bulk of the information Finch had managed to dig up. He had no criminal record, wasn't involved with any of the wrong people, had no influence, and as far as either of them could tell, was completely unimportant. Except for the fact that the Machine had come up with his number.

"He's letting her inside," Reese reported.

"Maybe he intends to kill her," Finch said. It didn't seem likely, but he needed to do something, to try to puzzle it out. He enjoyed working a good puzzle, but not when he didn't have any of the pieces.

"I doubt it," Reese said. "They're being very...friendly. I don't think this is the first time."

"Maybe she's tired of being the girlfriend-for-hire." Finch knew he was shooting in the dark, but time was running out. Not knowing how much time he had was frustrating, the only sure thing that it was always slipping by. "Do you have a name?"

"They're not talking much," Reese said. "He's taking her into the bedroom..." There was a pause, then Reese made a strange sound in his throat.

"Mr. Reese?"

"They left the blinds open," Reese said, his soft voice suddenly husky, a smoky whisper that made Finch shift uncomfortably in his chair. "She's giving him a blowjob."

Finch closed his eyes, trying to conjure up some dry remark, but he could think of nothing to say. He considered telling Reese to get back to him when they were finished; he thought about asking for a play-by-play -- he wound up saying nothing. After a moment, Reese continued.

"Her dark lipstick is smeared across his skin. He's got his fingers tangled in her hair...He's fucking her mouth -- What a pity."

"Pardon?" Finch said, his voice hoarse.

"He's obviously never had a good blowjob. It's a pity."

"And I suppose you're an expert on the subject?" Finch asked, trying not to imagine the research involved in becoming a fellatio expert.

Reese chuckled. "No, but I was fortunate enough to know someone who was." He paused, as though waiting for Finch to ask, and when Finch didn't, Reese elaborated anyway. "In '07, I was on assignment in the Bahamas--"

"The Agency sent you on all the lousy assignments, didn't they?"

"Quite a few," Reese replied and Finch could almost see his crooked grin. "I was assigned to watch a professor at the College of the Bahamas in Nassau and I kept crossing paths with this college student..." Reese fell silent, perhaps lost in memory, perhaps distracted by the view through the window. Finch waited. Finally, Reese sighed. "It was the best six weeks of my life."

"Nice to see where your priorities lie, Mr. Reese."

"I'm not just talking about the sex," Reese said, "although it was pretty damn fantastic. Have you ever met someone who made you feel...truly alive, like the world was a different place when you were with them?"

Finch shifted uncomfortably in his chair; he'd promised Reese he would never lie to him, but that was too personal. He deflected the question with one of his own. "What was her name?" Reese was silent for so long, Finch began to wonder how memorable a month and a half could be if he couldn't remember her name twenty years later.

"His name was Jade," Reese said finally.

Finch reached up and adjusted his earpiece -- he couldn't have heard that right. "I'm sorry, did you say _his_ name?"

"Yeah."

Now it was Finch's turn to sit in silence, digesting and analyzing this new information. Finally, he sat forward in his chair, his hands finding the keyboard as he returned to what he'd been doing. "Unless you have something to say that's pertinent to this case, Mr. Reese, I'd appreciate radio silence from now on."

"Acknowledged," Reese said shortly. "They're still fucking." A long, tense silence filled the distance between them, broken only by the staccato sound of Finch's typing. "You know, Finch," Reese said suddenly, "I never would have taken you for a homophobe."

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Finch said, his brows knitting. "What the hell--"

"You didn't have a problem with me talking until I mentioned that I once had a male lover--"

"I didn't have a problem," Finch said through tight lips, "until I realized that you were pulling another asinine prank, like that stunt in the alley. You forget, Mr. Reese, that I've read your file from cover to cover. I know everything about you, and I know you aren't gay."

"No, I'm not," Reese said, "but with Jade it didn't matter--"

"Effeminate? Transvestite?"

"Not hardly," Reese said. "He was six three and worked on a sugar cane plantation to pay his tuition. Finch, you're not listening. He was the most amazing person I had ever met and it didn't matter whether he had tits or a dick, I fell in love with him." Finch didn't know how to respond. This confession was not something he had ever expected. After a moment, Reese continued, his voice softer. "He was quiet and thoughtful and brilliant, and he had this way of looking at you that could make you feel like he was first person to really _see_ you.

"I remember one morning, about a week before I had to leave, he woke me up early and we went outside to watch the sun rise. The sea was calm and dark, and then the sky began to silver, and the water turned to pewter. The clouds turned so many shades of pink and lavender and gold -- it was beautiful. I turned to say something to him, and he had his eyes closed. I asked what he was doing -- he was missing the sunrise -- and he told me that when we look with our eyes, we see through the filter of our mind, but when we look with our hearts, only then can we see clearly. So we stood and watched the sunrise with our eyes closed."

"Why did you leave?" Finch asked after a moment.

"I was reassigned."

"Did you ever go back?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And he'd been killed," Reese said, his quiet voice taking on that lost, empty quality it had had when they'd first met. "They said it was an accident in the sugar cane fields, that he wasn't paying attention and he took a machete to the neck."

"I'm sorry, Reese," Finch said.

Reese grunted acknowledgement and they lapsed into silence.


	4. Chapter 4

"Are you sure there isn't a bug in the code or something?" Reese asked, standing in the shade of a tall maple as he watched the intensely boring Mr. Allen sit on a park bench and feed the pigeons.

"I wrote that code myself, Mr. Reese," Finch said in his ear. "There's nothing wrong with it. I don't understand why this man's number came up, but I assure you, there was a reason."

"And what if the situation has resolved itself?" Reese asked, glancing around to make sure he was the only person watching Mr. Allen. No surprise, he was. "Maybe his would-be killer got hit by a taxi or slipped in the shower. The Machine wouldn't be able to know that."

"No, it wouldn't," Finch admitted.

"So how long do we follow this guy?"

Finch sighed. "Until we-- Until a new number comes up, I suppose." He did it again, that slip of the tongue that made them more than associates, more than employer and employee.

"Maybe I should talk to him," Reese suggested.

"Not unless you have to," Finch said. "The more people who can identify you, the greater the risk that you'll be caught. Detective Carter hasn't backed off her witch hunt and it's only a matter of time--"

"I can handle Carter," Reese said. "Looks like he's on the move again." Reese followed at a safe distance as Mr. Allen strolled through the park, emerging onto Central Park West. Reese groaned. "I think he's heading for the Museum of Natural History," he said.

"A little culture might be good for you," Finch said dryly.

"Cute," Reese said. "Tell me if he changes his mind -- I've got to grab something to eat." He ducked into a corner sandwich shop and ordered quickly. As the cashier counted back his change and handed over his turkey on rye, Finch's voice suddenly came through the earpiece.

"I lost him."

Reese hurried out of the shop. "What do you mean? How could you lose him?"

"His GPS disappeared," Finch said, sounding annoyed. "He must have turned off his phone."

"Why would he do that?" Reese asked, heading for the museum.

"I don't know. Let me check the surveillance."

"I'll search the museum," Reese said.

"Don't bother," Finch replied. "There are hundreds of cameras in there -- my facial recognition software will find him faster than you can."

"So what am I supposed to do in the mean time?" Reese asked, stopping and taking a bite out of his sandwich.

"Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Reese," Finch said. Half an hour later, Finch's voice came back over the line. "We may have a problem," he said. "There's no sign of him in the museum. I went back to his last known location, and here's where it gets...concerning. Shortly after you go into the sandwich shop, Mr. Allen disappears from the surveillance footage."

Reese frowned. "What do you mean, disappears? How can he do that? There's a dozen cameras on every block."

"But there are holes, blind spots," Finch said. "Take three steps forward and a step to your left, for example, and you become invisible."

"Can't you just wait for him to reappear?" Reese asked.

"Oh, gee whiz, why didn't I think of that?" Finch said, his tone acidic. "I analyzed the footage from every angle. People walk in and out of the blind spot, several cars pass through the edge of it, a few even get stopped in traffic. Either he's still standing there, or he wanted to be sure no one could follow him."

Reese was silent for a long moment. "I guess this vindicates the Machine," he said finally. "What now?" He knew they were both thinking it -- if Mr. Allen had been so careful to disappear, it could only mean one thing -- he intended to do whatever the Machine had flagged his number for, and soon.

"Come back to the library," Finch said. "I'll run through the footage again -- maybe you can see something I missed. Then...return to his apartment? Look for evidence of his intended target?" There was a muted clatter, like plastic dancing over wood -- probably Finch tossing his glasses onto the table. "Damn it," he muttered.

"I'll be right there," Reese said, his gaze sweeping across the crowded city street, then he stepped off the curb and hailed a taxi.


	5. Chapter 5

_Where the hell was he?_ Finch pulled his glasses off again, rubbed his eyes, and then slipped them back on. They had come up empty on the footage and Reese had rushed over to Mr. Allen's apartment. It was a risk -- without the GPS, they had no way of knowing if he was home or not -- but they were running out of options.

How could a man with no training or military experience evade him so completely? Not even Reese had been able to elude him. It didn't make any sense. Finch brought up the information on Mr. Allen -- he had a bank account, but no credit cards, no magazine subscriptions, no gym membership. He had to be the most unimportant man on the planet. If he died, would anyone even miss him?

Finch tapped his fingertips against his lower lip. Something about this was all wrong. No one could be that invisible unless they tried, and tried damn hard. This was someone who knew what they were doing, who lived quietly, who moved in the shadows--

"Reese?"

"I just got to the apartment," Reese said. "It looks like nobody's home."

"Be careful," Finch said.

"Aw, Finch, I didn't know you cared." Finch opened his mouth to respond with like sarcasm, but the quiet _click_ of a gun being cocked froze the words in his throat. "What was that?" Reese asked. Finch slowly swiveled his chair, a cold stillness settling over him as his gaze fell upon the mysterious Mr. Allen, a sleek black pistol held easily in one hand. "Finch?"

"I found him," Finch said, his voice hollow in his own ears.

"Where?" Reese asked.

Finch hesitated, but Mr. Allen made no move to stop him. He just stood there, pointing the gun. "Here." Mr. Allen began to walk toward him and Finch felt his heart jump up into his throat. He scrambled for something to say, but all that came out was, "Good-bye, John."

"Finch? Finch!"

Finch closed his eyes as Mr. Allen stopped in front of him, the gun level with his head. He flinched as the man took the earpiece from his ear, Reese's voice growing small and tinny as he continued to shout Finch's name. Finch heard the earpiece hit the floor, then the crunch of plastic.

"You can open your eyes," Mr. Allen said, his voice smooth and even. "I'm not going to shoot you."

After a moment, Finch swallowed hard and looked up at him. "What do you want?"

"I want to know why your friend has been following me. Who do you work for? Where did you get your intel? What do you know?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Finch said. Mr. Allen regarded him for a moment, his dark eyes hard, and then he backhanded Finch, hard enough to turn his chair back facing the table. Pain throbbed through the side of his face, the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, and his vision swam as he raised his head, his gaze falling upon his array of monitors, each one filled with information. He quickly calculated the cost of action versus inaction, and though the outlook for both was high, the consequence of doing nothing carried the greatest risk.

He reached out, fingers dancing over the keys, and the cold barrel of the pistol dug into the back of his neck. He hesitated only a moment before hitting the enter key and triggering the emergency shutdown. All the monitors flickered and went black, the constant hum of electronics falling silent. Finch sat, staring at his own reflection in the dark monitors, taking slow, even breaths as he waited.

After a moment, Mr. Allen pulled the gun back. "Doesn't matter," he said. "There are other ways of getting what I want from you."

Finch didn't resist as Mr. Allen tied him to the chair, using a roll of black electrical tape that Finch had bought to fix the wiring in the old library. That wasn't the only thing the man found. Finch watched, a tightness in his chest, as Mr. Allen picked up the electric drill, a wry smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

"Some people insist on taking their own tools with them," he said, poking around in a cardboard box full of wires, pliers, and drill bits, "but I prefer to travel light. It's not usually so hard to find what you need just laying around. Oh, this will do nicely." He loosened the chuck, took out the bit, and replaced it with a circular wire brush that Finch had used to take the corrosion off the pipes in the basement. Finch jumped as he squeezed the trigger, the tips of the stiff bristles glinting in the overhead lights as the brush head spun.

"What are you going to do?" Finch asked, his voice strained.

"That depends," Mr. Allen replied, walking toward him. "Are you going to tell me what I want to know?"


	6. Chapter 6

Tires squealing, Reese careened around the corner, police sirens wailing in the distance, following in his wake. He'd run at least seven red lights and clipped three other vehicles, but it was a stolen car, so it wasn't like he cared. At that moment, there was only one thing he cared about and he couldn't bear the thought of losing it.

Six blocks from the library -- as close as he dared go with the cops after him -- Reese slammed on the brakes, cranked the wheel, and slid sideways into a vacant lot. Leaping from the vehicle, he took off on foot, ducking into the shadows as whirling red and blue lights painted the dark streets.

Breathing hard, Reese paused outside the library door, his training overriding the urge to rush in. He drew his gun, checked the clip, and took off the safety. Easing the door open, he slipped inside, his ears straining for the faintest noise and catching a distant, echoing whine of an electric motor, followed by a sound that made his stomach knot up and his skin go cold. It was the unmistakable sound of a scream.

His heart pounding, Reese rushed through the library halls, drawing up short and adjusting his grip on his pistol as the electric whine suddenly fell silent, leaving the scream to trail off into a breathless, choking sob. Pressing his back to the cold, cinder block wall, Reese peered around the edge of the carved support column, taking in the scene before him in one quick glance.

Finch sat in his desk chair, restrained by some kind of black cord or tape, his back to Reese with some kind of hood or bag over his head. Standing over him was Mr. Allen, his face and shirt flecked with dark drops of blood, holding an electric drill in his hands, the brush-head bit covered in gore.

"I admire your resolve, I really do," Mr. Allen said to Finch, "but if you're holding out for your friend, thinking he's going to come save you, I have some bad news. I'm going to be waiting for him, and I'm going to kill him, and then I'm going to come back and finish with you, unless you tell me what you know. Who are you working for?"

Finch drew a long, ragged breath. "Fuck you," he said, his voice hoarse and trembling. Mr. Allen squeezed the button on the drill and laughed as the sound made Finch jump. Reese tightened his grip on the gun, his jaw clenching. Eyes tracking every movement, Reese watched Mr. Allen lay the drill down on the table and pick up a small black handgun.

"I'll be back," Mr. Allen said as he stepped past Finch.

Reese waited until he had moved several yards away from Finch, then he stepped away from the wall, raised his gun, and took aim. "Drop your weapon," he said, his voice almost lost in the wide, cold hall.

"Ah, Mr. Reese," Mr. Allen said, betraying no hint of surprise or alarm. "Looks like traffic was better than I expected."

"It helps to drive on the sidewalk," Reese said. "Now put it down."

"We both know that's not going to happen," Mr. Allen said. They regarded each other for a moment; it was like looking into a mirror. "So what happens now?" Mr. Allen asked. "We stand here and stare at each other while your friend bleeds to death?"

Reese's gaze darted to Finch, searching the floor for a dangerous amount of blood and finding only a small puddle. A flash of movement caught his eye -- he glanced back. Mr. Allen started to raise his gun. Reese squeezed the trigger.

The bullet took him cleanly through the eye, blowing the back off his skull and splattering gray matter across the wall. As the body crumpled to the floor, arms and legs still twitching, Reese raced into the room and over to Finch. He stopped short, his breath catching at the sight of his employer, a blood-splattered pillowcase over his head. One leg of his trousers had been rolled up, one sleeve pushed back, and his shirt had been unbuttoned, each area of bare skin bearing a large, bloody abrasion that resembled so much hamburger.

"Jesus, Finch," Reese whispered.

Finch raised his head. "John?"

"Yeah..." Reese said, his voice cracking; he wished he knew Finch's first name, his real name. "Yeah, it's me." Carefully, he lifted off the pillowcase, steeling himself for whatever might lie beneath. Hair disheveled and glasses askew, Finch peered up at him, a dark, angry red mark on the right side of his ashen face, but that was all.

Finch opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it again and swallowed hard. "I think I owe you a bonus," he said finally, only a shadow of that sharp, dry wit in his voice.

Reese didn't respond, except to pull his knife out of his pocket -- he didn't trust what might come out of his mouth at that moment. Slicing through the tape that bound Finch to the chair, he watched with an uncomfortable helplessness as Finch slowly raised his hand to fix his glasses, the movement causing him to draw a pained breath through his teeth.

"Try to stay still," Reese said softly. "I'll find a car and take you to the hospital."

"No," Finch said with a small shake of his head. "No, Mr. Reese, there will be no hospital. I'm fine." He seemed to gather his strength, to brace himself, and then he grabbed the edge of the table and levered himself to his feet. Reese watched him bite back a cry as the leg of his trousers slid down over the raw wound, his whole body stiff and trembling. "It's just some minor abrasions," he said as he closed his shirt over his bloody chest.

Reese picked up the drill and held it toward Finch, the wire bristles caked with tattered bits of skin. "Does this look minor to you?"

Finch averted his eyes as more of the color drained from his face. "Fine, _major_ abrasions -- but that still doesn't require a trip to the hospital. I'm going to go clean up -- I would appreciate it if you would do the same." He gave his head a small nod toward the hall, where a large puddle of blood had spread across the floor under the body.

"Whatever you say, boss," Reese said with a sigh. He watched Finch walk away, his limp significantly more pronounced, and then went to find something to wrap the body in. As soon as he was out of earshot, he pulled his cell out of his pocket, glad he had committed Dr. Tillman's number to memory. He had expected to need her skills at some point, though he'd never imagined it would be Finch who needed the help.

"Hello?" she answered.

"Megan, I need a favor," Reese said. There was a long pause.

"Who is this?" she asked finally, though from her tone it was obvious knew exactly who he was.

"I talked you out of making a terrible mistake a while ago."

She sighed. "I thought that was you. What do you want?"

"My...partner -- He's been injured. We need gauze, antibiotics, and something for the pain."

"Wouldn't it be better to take him to a hospital?"

"He won't go. Too many questions."

She hesitated. "What happened?"

"He was tortured," Reese said softly. "A drill with a wire brush bit. Three circular abrasions four to five inches across."

"Oh my God," she whispered. He heard her swallow hard. "All right, but then we're even, right?"

"I'm not keeping score, Megan," Reese said. "If you tell me to leave you alone, you'll never hear from me again." She didn't respond. "Thank you. Can you meet me in an hour?" He gave her an address a few blocks away and started to hang up.

"Wait," she said, taking a shaking breath. "What...what did you do with him?"

"I made sure he'll _never_ hurt anyone ever again," Reese said. "See you in an hour."


	7. Chapter 7

Finch tried to avoid looking at his reflection in the large mirror that hung over the row of sinks in the old public restroom of the library. He had never gotten around to converting it into a proper bathroom with a shower stall - inconvenient as it sometimes was, something about having to go home to take a shower made him feel...normal - and so was forced to stand before the sink, dripping pink water on the floor as he ran his bloodstained shirt under the tap and used it to dab at the wounds and wash away the blood that ran down the front of his chest.

His movements stiff and methodical, he focused on what he was doing, detaching himself from the pain, labeling and categorizing and compartmentalizing the sensations - sharp pain and relentless burning and dull throbbing - like a stenographer taking the dictation from his raw, screaming nerves. He knew all the tricks and techniques for managing pain, and sometimes...sometimes they almost helped.

A soft knock came at the bathroom door, but before Finch could tell Reese to go away, the other man spoke. "I cleaned up the mess," he said. "I'm going out. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"No, Mr. Reese," Finch said, his tone clipped. "I'll contact you when I have another number." He braced himself for an argument, but the only sound that came through the door was that of Reese's retreating footsteps. Finch fought the urge to call after him, to hobble out there and say...He didn't even know what. His gaze darted up to the mirror again and he choked back a sudden sob, his hands clutching at the edge of the sink, his whole body shaking as he gasped for breath.

He couldn't remember ever having been so afraid, not even when he'd had the accident, and the part he couldn't yet quantify, couldn't quite understand, was why, after everything that had happened, why had that single gunshot filled him with the coldest, blackest terror of all? A man more prone to self-deception could have excused it as the fear of Mr. Allen returning to continue torturing him, but Finch was not such a man. In that moment, he hadn't been afraid for himself.

How had he let himself become attached to this man? He was smarter than that. As he had told Reese, this crusade would probably be the death of both of them, and he had no illusions as to which of them would most likely die first. He had fought to keep distance between them, he had tried damn hard, but Reese, with his charming smile and soulful stare and ambiguous flirting, had managed to breach Finch's formidable defenses. And the biggest surprise of all? Finch couldn't seem to mind that much.

Lately, as he lay awake at night, his body aching just from the effort of walking, sitting, living, he found his thoughts not filled with numbers and haunted by the faces of those he couldn't save, but returning again and again to the one man he _did_ save, the life he changed all on his own. What did Reese want from him? How much of his charm was honest camaraderie and how much was just a game? And how much would it hurt when Reese finally got tired of playing with him?

Finch finished washing up, a storm of tiny spasms firing in the scarred muscles of his neck by the time he had cleaned the wound on his shin. All three of the abrasions continued to weep blood, but it wasn't life threatening, so he wasn't going to worry about it. He opened the first aid kit he'd assembled after Reese had demonstrated his lack of self-preservation during their first few cases. Unfortunately, Reese had used up most of the large gauze pads after he'd been shot.

Finch pressed his lips into a thin line as he opened one of the last two sterile paper envelopes and liberally smeared one side of the gauze with antibiotic ointment. Not only would it help prevent infection - which was likely, considering where the brush had been used previously - but it would keep the gauze from sticking to the wound and ripping off the scab when it came time to change it. Gritting his teeth, Finch placed the gauze over the wound on his chest and gently taped it in place. He put the last pad over the injury to his arm, since blood on the leg of his dark gray slacks would be less noticeable than on his sleeve.

Hobbling worse than he had since physical therapy after the surgery, Finch made his way out of the bathroom and down the hall to the room where he sometimes slept. It didn't have a proper closet, so he had turned the small office across the hall into one. Picking out his oldest shirt in case the dressing leaked, Finch slowly slipped it on, all the muscles from one shoulder to the other protesting vehemently against such treatment. He ignored them and focused on manipulating the tiny buttons. There was a drug store three blocks away; if he hurried, he could make it before they closed.

"Going somewhere?"

Finch had become aware of Reese's presence only moments before the man spoke, but still long enough to avoid being startled or showing any sign of surprise. "I thought I might take a walk," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. He finished buttoning his shirt before turning to face Reese. "I said I'd call you."

"I couldn't wait," Reese said. "I thought you might need these." He held up a white paper bag, the top rolled down, and gave it a small shake. It rustled and rattled like pills in a bottle. Finch felt a swift rush of gratitude and relief, but he pushed it aside. The pain wasn't that bad.

"Your concern is touching, Mr. Reese," Finch said, moving slowly to control his limp as much as possible, "but I'm fine." Besides, he'd built up a tolerance to over the counter pain medication; he could eat them by the handful, and while they would destroy his liver, they wouldn't touch his pain. Reese stepped back out of the way as Finch walked past him. The strain of maintaining his normal, stiff gait was making the muscles in his leg spasm. If he didn't sit down soon, he was going to cramp and wind up sprawled on the floor. He paused, drawing on all his inner strength as he raised his head, his neck aching, and looked Reese in the eye. "I'm fine," he said again, "and I wish you would respect my privacy and just leave. I'll call you."

Not waiting for an answer and not looking back, Finch made his way into the simple bedroom and shut the door behind him. His fists clenched, he hobbled over to the bed and dropped down upon the mattress, biting back a cry as his hip seized, his leg stiffening. Gasping for breath, he lay back, jumping and twitching as flashes of electric pain radiated out from his hip, shooting down to his foot and up to his shoulder. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax, tried to will his angry muscles to unknot, but like a cruel dictator, he had pushed his body too far and now could do nothing in the face of the unstoppable revolt.

And then, as if his night hadn't been bad enough already, Finch heard the door open.


	8. Chapter 8

Finch groaned as he stepped into the room. "What do I have to do to make you leave?" Finch asked, a thread of desperation in his voice.

Reese walked over and dropped the bag on the bed beside him. "Stand up." Finch opened his eyes and glared at Reese, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he clenched his teeth, but he remained on the bed. "That's what I thought," Reese said, slipping out of his jacket and tossing it over into Finch's armchair.

"What do you want?" Finch asked through tight lips.

"I want you to dial back on the paranoid defense mechanism just a bit," Reese said. "The bad guy is dead, remember? I shot him, so you can relax a little. It's just me; John. Remember?" Finch averted his gaze.

Reese sighed. He could understand Finch's attitude, like a hedgehog sticking out its prickles when frightened, but he was tired of getting stuck on the spines. He opened the bag and pulled out the two bottles of medication.

"I took the liberty of getting you some antibiotics - take one pill three times a day for ten days - and some pain meds. I'm sure you know what to do with those. I also got some more gauze since I think I used up most of what you had."

"What did you do, rob a pharmacy?" Finch asked, a frown creasing his brow.

"I called in a favor," Reese replied.

"Dr. Tillman?"

Reese nodded. Finch seemed to think about that for a moment, then he sighed, the weight upon him seeming to ease just a little.

"All right, I'll take the pills," Finch said, a hollow resignation in his voice.

Reese resisted a smile over the small victory, instead heading for the door. "I'll be back with some water," he said. When he returned, Finch still hadn't moved, which said volumes about the pain he had to be in. He could see Finch not wanting to fight and struggle against his body in front of an audience, but when he wouldn't even do it in private...

Reese took a pill out of each bottle and pressed them into Finch's hand. Before the stubborn man could protest, Reese sat down beside him and carefully worked his arm beneath Finch's shoulders, slowly easing him up enough to take a drink to wash down the pills. As he lay Finch back down, Finch suddenly stiffened, his jaw clenching and a sound catching in his throat.

"Sorry, did I do that?" Reese asked as he drew back.

Eyes closed and face pale, Finch shook his head. "No," he gritted out. "Muscle...spasm... Not your fault."

"Is there anything I can do?" Reese asked, only slightly relieved.

"Not unless you know a massage therapist who owes you a favor," Finch said. Reese watched the spasm pass, Finch's taut frame suddenly limp and trembling.

"I'm afraid I don't," Reese said, "but I could ask Fusco if he has any experience." He supposed the sound that issued from Finch's lips could have been considered a laugh, but it was still too much like a sob for Reese's liking. Without thinking, he reached out and took Finch's hand.

For a moment, he just sat there, staring at the stiff, unyielding hand in his, trying to decide if he should pull back, acknowledge his mistake and accept the defeat, or stick to his guns and let Finch make the next move. A strategic retreat was safer, but he was hardly known for playing it safe. He waited, expecting Finch to pull away, or tell him to leave, and was pleasantly surprised when that gentle hand, those skilled fingers so adept at coaxing information out of any machine, curled lightly around his.

"I'll be all right, Reese," Finch said quietly, at least leaving off the _Mr._ even if he hadn't called him John again. Reese didn't understand - and was unwilling to examine it too closely - why it had meant so much to hear that small word from Finch's lips, but something deep inside him longed to hear it again, whispered and murmured and moaned and shouted.

Reese gave Finch's hand a small squeeze and then let go, rising from the edge of the bed as though he could put the same distance between him and those pointless thoughts. Finch would never see him as anything more than a mercenary, a gun for hire, a necessary evil in his grand quest for redemption. Finch hadn't even thanked him for saving his life, just joked about giving him a bonus, because killing people was Reese's job, it was all he was good for. Suddenly frustrated with himself, Reese ran a hand back through his hair and sighed.

"You need to rest," he said, his gaze raking Finch from head to foot, trying to decide if he needed anything else. "Are you going to sleep in your clothes?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Finch said. "Just turn off the light on your way out."

"Hold your horses," Reese said. "You don't need your shoes on."

"Mr. Reese-" Finch protested, but Reese ignored him, walking to the foot of the bed and gently sliding one shoe off, then the other. As the second shoe came off, Reese frowned and dropped it on the floor, his attention on Finch's black dress sock. It was wet and sticky with blood. He peeled it off and dropped it on the floor beside the shoe. All the blood from his leg wound had run down and soaked into his sock.

"You've got a handkerchief, don't you?" Reese asked. Stiffly, Finch slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a crisp, white handkerchief. Reese took it, shook it out, and placed it under Finch's bloody foot to protect the quilt beneath. "I'll be right back," he said as he left.

In the bathroom, he looked for a towel, but could only find Finch's bloody shirt lying on the edge of one of the sinks. It looked like it had already been used to clean up Finch's wounds, so Reese went ahead and rinsed it out with warm water. He returned to Finch and set about washing his foot.

"That's really not necessary," Finch said, sounding annoyed.

Reese ignored it. "Has that painkiller kicked in yet?" he asked.

"Not yet," Finch said. "It'll be a while l-" He seized up, a whimper slipping through his tight lips as Reese pushed back the leg of his trouser to wash his ankle and the cloth rubbed across the exposed, bloody wound.

"There's no dressing on this one," Reese said, his brows knitting as he lifted the material and slowly rolled it back.

"I ran out of gauze," Finch said through his teeth.

"Why didn't you say something - I got more."

"I forgot!" Finch snapped. "With as much fucking pain as I'm in, I forgot."

It was probably the most unguarded thing Finch had ever said, and Reese didn't reply as he gently wiped away the fresh blood and went back to the bathroom to fetch the antibiotic ointment and surgical tape out of the first aid kit. By the time he returned, Finch had composed himself.

"I must apologize for my language, Mr. Reese," he said. "There's no excuse for such vulgarity." Reese couldn't help but chuckle, earning him a dark look from Finch. "Did I say something to amuse you?"

"I was just thinking about something you said earlier today," Reese said. "It was the most eloquent, appropriate thing I had ever heard come out of your mouth. It was when Mr. Allen told you he'd kill me and then come back to torture you some more unless you told him what he wanted to know, and you said, 'Fuck you'. I couldn't have said it better myself."

Finch rolled his eyes, then closed them. "I'm glad you approve," he said, grimacing as Reese placed the gauze over the wound and taped it in place. Reese wiped away a few more smears of blood and then set the wet shirt on the floor.

"All right, anything else I can do? How are the muscle spasms?"

"Not as bad," Finch said, his speech starting to slow and thicken - the painkiller was beginning to take effect. "My hamstring feels as knotted as an old yo-yo string, though."

"Which one?" Reese asked and Finch pointed. Reese stepped around to the side of the bed and leaned over Finch, placing his hands on the other man's hip and knee.

"What are you doing?" Finch asked, stiffening as suspicion cut through the fog of narcotics.

"Relax," Reese said. "I'm just trying to help. Can you roll your body this way just a bit?" For a moment, Finch seemed more inclined to tell Reese to go to hell, but he finally shifted his hips and let Reese help him onto his side. "Does that hurt?"

"No more so than any other position," Finch said.

Reese began slowly moving his hands up and down the back of Finch's thigh, applying gentle pressure as he felt for the knots. "When I was in Basic," Reese said, suddenly uncomfortable in the silence, "guys used to cramp up after long runs and we'd rub the knots out for each other, except the goal was to rub hard enough to make the other guy scream. Whoever screamed had to buy the beer."

"Sounds like summer camp," Finch mumbled.

Reese hesitated. "How did you get hurt?" he asked finally, bearing down lightly on one of the knots.

Finch groaned. "I was in an accident," he said, "and if you think one pain pill is enough to get me to bare my soul, Mr. Reese, you're going to be greatly disappointed."

"Can't blame a guy for trying," Reese said with a dry chuckle. They lapsed into silence as Reese worked out the rest of the hard muscles, broken only by an occasional sharp intake of breath or a muted groan from Finch. "How does that feel?"

"Better," Finch said. "Thank you."

Reese lifted his hands, letting Finch roll onto his back. "And your neck?"

"You've done enough, Mr. Reese," Finch said, his gaze glassy as he stared up at Reese. "I'd like to sleep now." He reached up and peeled off his glasses, his eyes closing and arm shaking as he let it fall back to his side. Reese hesitated, then took the glasses from him and placed them on one of the shelves at the head of the bed, beside the bottles of pills and half-empty glass of water. He gently pulled the folded quilt off the foot of the bed and shook it out before laying it alongside Finch, within easy reach should he get cold.

He glanced around the room, could think of nothing else he could do to help, and picked up his jacket before slowly heading for the door. He turned off the light and stood a moment in the doorway, staring back in at Finch, the light from the hall falling faintly upon his prone form. He didn't want to leave.

He tried to fool himself with excuses - that Finch was too vulnerable to be left alone, that Mr. Allen might have an accomplice, that the risk of leaving the library was too great with the cops still looking for him - but that wasn't as effective since he'd quit drinking. He didn't want to leave because he didn't want Finch to wake alone. He wanted to be there, to show the wary man that neither of them had to be alone anymore, to prove that he wasn't going to abandon or betray Finch, that he was capable of more than destruction.

"Why did you do it?" Finch asked softly, his speech noticeably slurred.

"Do what?" Reese asked. Help him? Put a bullet in Mr. Allen's head instead of his knee? Race across town to save Finch? Take the job? So many of his actions bore murky motives, he wasn't sure which one Finch was referring to.

"In the alley, with that man..." Finch said. "You knew I would be watching."

"I had..." Reese hesitated, searching for a safer word, but finally settling on the first one that had come to mind. "I had hoped you would be."

"Why?"

Reese shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"If you can't give me an honest answer, Mr. Reese, then kindly stop staring at me and go away."

Reese seriously considered doing just that. That whole incident was a mistake he wasn't ready to face. "I'm sorry," he said finally.

"I didn't ask for an apology, just an explanation."

"I don't have one," Reese said, wishing the pain meds would hurry up and knock Finch out. "It was stupid and impulsive-"

"Couldn't have been too impulsive," Finch said, sounding groggy, but by no means unconscious. "You gave him a pair of glasses to wear while you were with him...Why? Surely, you had a reason for that."

Reese closed his eyes, his body tensing, as through bracing for a blow. "It was easier to pretend he was you." He waited for Finch to accuse him of lying, to tell him to get out, to never come back...

"I'm flattered, Mr. Reese," Finch said, his tone dry, more like his usual self. "I don't think anyone has ever fantasized about defiling me in an alley before."

"Finch, that's not-"

"Get out, Mr. Reese," Finch said, his words filling Reese with a hollow, sinking feeling. "This conversation is over and will _never_ be brought up again, understood?"

"Understood, Mr. Finch," Reese said quietly, backing out of the room and pulling the door shut behind him. He stood for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, his eyes closed, listening to the sound of his own deep, steady breaths in the silent hallway. Finally, he turned and walked away, digging his cell phone out of his pocket and dropping it on Finch's desk as he left.


	9. Chapter 9

It had taken Finch two days to find Reese, but only because he'd sulked for a day and a half before he started looking. And yes, he was man enough to acknowledge his stubborn fit of pique as sulking. Reese had no right to just disappear, to abandon their work, to leave him on his own to shoulder this great burden again. He had every right to be angry, but, Finch supposed, so did Reese.

 _It was easier to pretend it was you._ No longer addled by narcotics, Finch replayed that last conversation in his mind a hundred times, analyzing and dissecting Reese's words, his tone, his silences, his posture. Thanks to the drugs, he couldn't be sure he was remembering correctly, but he was fairly confident that he had handled the situation poorly, which was one reason why he couldn't let it end like this.

He limped down the long hotel hallway, ignoring the pain in his wounds as his suit pressed against the bandages. The healing was progressing as expected, so he couldn't really complain. Stopping outside Reese's room, Finch pulled a blank hotel key card out of his pocket and slid it into the slot. To anyone watching the security footage, it would appear that he had paused to check his messages, instead of activating the decryption app he had written. His cell sent a wireless pulse to the key card and the door unlocked.

Slipping inside, he quietly closed the door and stood in the dark hallway, acutely aware of how potentially dangerous the situation could turn. Reese was a trained killer, after all, and it was reasonable to assume he would not be happy to see Finch. However, judging by the surveillance footage Finch had hijacked from the liquor store down the street, it was also reasonable to assume Reese would not be conscious at this early morning hour. Knowing that Reese had slipped back into the bottle filled Finch with an uncomfortable mix of sadness and guilt.

Making his way past the bathroom and into the main room, Finch found Reese sprawled across one of the two beds, a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand and his pistol in the other. Finch forced himself to stand there and take in the scene, to acknowledge the tragedy he had almost caused. Living with this memory would be his penance.

Finch considered taking the gun or the bottle out of Reese's hand, but he imagined that a surprised, hung-over Reese would shoot first and ask questions later. Limping over to the unoccupied bed, he sat down to wait.

Finch slowly opened his eyes, his neck stiff and aching. He had only meant to close his eyes for a moment, but a sleepless night, his rest unaided by pain pills, had caught up with him. Struggling not to grimace, he sat up, adjusted his glasses, and glanced over at the other bed. It was empty. Finch stared at it for a moment, then sighed.

"What do you want?"

Finch jumped, startled, his neck giving a painful twinge. Sitting motionless, he waited for the sharp pain to ease back to a bearable ache.

"I'm assuming you didn't go through all this trouble just for a nap," Reese said when he didn't respond. Finch tried to ignore the hostility in that normally soft voice, but he couldn't ignore the way it made him feel.

"I came to apologize," Finch said, slowing rising to his feet and turning to face Reese. He could only make out his form, standing in the entrance of the hallway, the room dark, curtains drawn against the morning sun. He couldn't tell if he was holding the bottle or the gun; he couldn't see them anywhere else in the room. "I didn't react as well as I could have."

"I thought we weren't talking about that," Reese said, his voice cold as he stepped out of the hall, walking past Finch and across the room.

Finch tried again. "I brought you your phone--"

"Keep it," Reese said. "I'm done working for you. I quit."

Finch felt his anger rising and fought to keep his voice steady. "Why? Because you pump me full of narcotics and then don't like what comes out of my mouth, now you're going to abandon all those people, people who need your help--"

"Not _all_ of them need my help," Reese said bitterly, clearly thinking about Elias, "and it wouldn't be the first time."

"Reese, please--"

"Leave me alone, Finch--"

"No!" Finch said, his fists clenching. "I can't do this on my own. Damn it, John, I need you!" His words hung, echoing in the silent room, unretractable. Squaring his shoulders, he ignored the resulting pain and said it again. "I need you."

"You need a mercenary," Reese said, his voice thick with that bitterness again. "It shouldn't be too hard to find someone else with the skills and the training to do your dirty work."

"No, it wouldn't be," Finch said, growing frustrated and a little desperate. "I had a long list of candidates, but you were the only one I asked, the only one who needed this job as much as I needed you, the only one who would care about the people and not just the paycheck. You're not a mercenary, John, you're a hero--"

"Stop calling me that!" Reese gritted through his teeth as he stalked across the room, his expression hidden by the darkness, but Finch didn't imagine he was in a hugging mood. Finch tensed, taking an involuntary step backward as Reese neared him, grabbing him and shoving him back against the wall. Finch stiffened, drawing a sharp breath as he choked back a cry. Gasping, he stared up into Reese's dark blue eyes, filled with so much anger and pain. "You have no idea how many times a day I wish you'd call me John, but you never do, you have to keep that professional distance, because the fucking world would end if you ever showed the slightest hint that you might actually like me, and now you brandish my name like a weapon to break down my defenses, because that's all you know how to do -- watch and learn and manipulate people into doing what you want--"

Finch brought his arms up and planted both hands in the middle of Reese's chest, shoving with all his strength. To his surprise, Reese let go of him and stepped back. It felt like a barracuda was gnawing on his vertebrae, but he did his best to ignore it, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket and straightening his tie while he composed himself.

"I assure you," Finch said, avoiding any moniker for the moment, "I was doing no such thing. And I do like you, which is a rather...foreign emotion and not altogether welcome, to be honest. In my experience, the more you care about something, the more it hurts to lose it."

"That's the human condition," Reese said quietly, all the fight seeming to have gone out of him. "The only people who never lose anything they care about are the ones who don't care about anything, and that's no way to live. Trust me." They regarded each other for a moment, then Reese took a small step toward him. "I hurt you; I'm sorry."

Finch started to shake his head, but the movement made him wince, so he stopped, glad of the darkness to hide his pain. "It wasn't your fault," he said. "I woke up stiff." He usually did some light stretching before he lay down and after he got up, but he'd been distracted.

"I can help," Reese said. "Take off your jacket."

Finch licked suddenly dry lips. "Really, that's not necess--"

"Please, Finch," Reese whispered. "I just want to help." He reached out, and Finch made no move to stop him as he unbuttoned the charcoal gray suit jacket. Trying to keep his breathing even, Finch stepped stiffly away from the wall and allowed Reese to slide his jacket off. Reese lay it on the nearest bed, then turned back to him. "On second thought, take it all off."

"I beg your pardon?" Finch said.

"The vest, the tie, the shirt," Reese said, walking away. "Take it off. I need to see what I'm doing." He went to the window and drew open the curtains, letting the clear morning sunlight pour into the room. Finch squinted and blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted, and then he noticed that Reese was barefoot, his slacks wrinkled, his shirt unbuttoned, exposing his bare chest. Finch quickly averted his gaze. His face was also unshaven, his hair uncombed, and he smelled like a barstool, but that hardly mattered.

Finch's hands trembled as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, his mind filled with reasons to leave, excuses to go, potential hazards, but all of that data was rendered null and void by one overriding thought -- he wanted to stay. Reese was right, drifting through the world like a ghost, never caring about anything, was no way to live.

Reese took the waistcoat from him, laying it beside the jacket and smoothing the cloth as he waited for the next item of clothing. Finch handed him the silk tie, then began working on the tiny buttons on his shirt. Finch expected Reese to try to help, but he didn't, he just stood there, waiting, and for that Finch was grateful. He'd not let anyone undress him in a long time, longer than he cared to remember.

He winced as he shrugged out of the shirt, automatically turning his face away from the light so it wouldn't show. More than a little self-conscious, he stood stiffly, his gaze shifting to Reese's dark skin and toned muscle. Finch kept himself in decent shape, but he didn't look like _that_.

Without a word, Reese motioned for him to have a seat and he sank down on the edge of the bed, his back ramrod straight, his hands pressed flat against the fronts of his thighs. He waited for Reese to comment on the scar, but maybe the light wasn't good enough to see it, because Reese said nothing as he sat down behind Finch. Closing his eyes, Finch braced himself, fighting to keep his breathing steady and even as warm hands ghosted over his shoulders.

"Is there any place that I shouldn't touch?" Reese asked.

"Probably," Finch said, annoyed at the slight hoarseness of his voice. "I'll let you know if you find one."

"All right, I'll be careful," Reese said, beginning to apply light, steady pressure between his shoulder blades. "Just try to relax."

That was easier said than done. Without the influence of pain medication and the convenient excuse it provided, Finch found himself repressing the little gasps and moans that had escaped him the other night, his body taut as his mind raced, analyzing all possible meanings behind Reese's actions, trying to predict his movements, and -- perhaps most importantly -- trying to determine his motivation. Was he simply repentant and trying to help? Was he angling for more personal information? Or was he after something else, an outcome Finch hardly dared consider because it scared the hell out of him just how much he wanted it?

"So, this surgery," Reese said after a few minutes, and Finch felt a swift stab of disappointment, followed by grim vindication as his suspicions were confirmed -- all Reese wanted was information. "Did they weld plate steel to your back? Because I think I'd have more luck rubbing a dent out of your car."

 _A joke._ Finch sat in stunned silence, not sure how to respond. It would have been so much simpler if Reese had been after his secrets. "I have three fused vertebrae," he heard himself say. "Titanium rods and pins hold my neck together." He wasn't sure why he said it -- to reward Reese for _not_ asking, perhaps. It didn't matter.

Reese didn't respond, except to shift his body a little closer, his attention switching from a targeted exploration to a more generalized behavior, his strong hands sliding down to the small of Finch's back before rising again, more like a friendly back rub than a clinical massage.

"Do you trust me?" Reese asked, his voice soft.

Finch hesitated. He would not lie. "I want to," he said.

"Do you think I would ever deliberately hurt you?"

"You quit," Finch said after a moment, uncertain if that was the kind of hurt Reese meant.

"But I didn't do it to hurt you," Reese said. "I couldn't go back to the way things were, pretend that everything was all right, when I knew what you really thought about me."

"Which is?" Finch didn't see how Reese could know, when he himself wasn't sure. Especially of late, his opinion of the man was in a constant state of flux.

"What I said, about pretending it was you, that came out all wrong."

"I know," Finch said after a moment. He should have known it would be something as simple as a miscommunication.

"The alley was just convenient," Reese continued, his hands gliding over Finch's skin. "It's not how I would really do it."

Finch hesitated, his mouth suddenly dry. "Do what?"

"Make love to you."

Finch gasped as Reese kissed the side of his neck, warm lips, warm breath sliding across his skin, the touch of another so foreign a sensation that it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and sent a resounding shudder through his core. He let his eyes close, let his breathing grow harsh and ragged, let his hands curl into fists -- For one selfish, self-indulgent moment, he let it happen, but as with all things, especially things that were too good to be true, it had to end.

Finch sat forward, pulling away from Reese's touch. He took a moment to compose himself, then rose to his feet. Slowly, he turned to face Reese, still sitting on the bed. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"Because unlike every other time that I've thought about doing it," Reese said, "I'm currently still drunk enough not to stop myself."

Finch thought he'd been prepared for any answer that Reese could give. He was wrong. "But...why me?" he asked finally. Reese was so handsome and charming, he could have had anyone he wanted. Why settle for a broken-down, middle-aged computer geek who had more in common with machines than he did with other human beings? Reese could do better, so much better.

"Why?" Reese repeated, arching an eyebrow. "No particular reason, I suppose, except that you're brilliant, and honest, and brave, and kind; you make me smile; you saved my life, you gave me hope, gave me a purpose; you're strong, stronger than I am, more determined, more resilient; you never let anything stop you, never back down, never give up; you're just as alone in this world as I am, you need someone just as much, and you're the only person who could ever understand what it is that we do."

Finch was rendered speechless. Not just at a temporary loss for words, but utterly speechless. He stared at Reese, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words, trying to see the angle, the ploy, the con, the endgame, but he might as well have been looking for the meaning of life in his tea leaves.

After a minute, Reese stood up, regarding Finch with an open honesty in his eyes that Finch envied -- but of course his expression was too carefully guarded to ever let it show. "I'm going to go take a shower and finish sobering up," Reese said. "If you're not here when I get out, I'll understand. Leave the phone and call me when you have a number. I'll be waiting."

Finch wanted to ask what would happen if he _was_ still there, but instead he said, "I thought you quit."

"I changed my mind," Reese said, heading toward the hall and the bathroom. "I realized that working for you is the only thing keeping me alive." He disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Finch waited until he could hear the shower running, then he turned to stare down at the bed where his clothes lay. Slowly, he raised his hand to his neck, his fingertips brushing the spot where Reese's lips had been, then he reached into his pocket and pulled out Reese's cell. No matter what he did, nothing was ever going to be the same again. He held the phone for a moment, then set it down on the corner of the bed and picked up his shirt.


	10. Chapter 10

Letting the near scalding water beat down on his back, Reese stood with his head bowed, his forehead resting against the tiles. It wasn't often he found himself in a situation where the lines weren't drawn in stark black and white, his course of action simple and direct -- save the victim, shoot the bad guys, don't get killed. Now he stood surrounded by gray, like so much steam in the shower stall, and he didn't know which way to turn.

He shut off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel off the counter and rubbing himself dry. He fought not to look at the closed door, though he couldn't stop himself from wondering if Finch was still out there, waiting for him. The rational part of him said Finch was long gone -- he was too reserved, too rigid, too solitary to let himself be seduced by a man -- but all the rationale in the world couldn't snuff out the ember of hope that burned in a dark, forgotten corner of his heart. He _wanted_ Finch to be waiting for him, even though he knew he was almost certain to be disappointed.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped over to the counter and regarded his reflection in the mirror. God, he looked old. He ran a hand over one unshaven cheek, flecks of silver sparkling in the dark stubble. His gaze shifted to the new, pink scar just above his collarbone -- where he'd been shot trying to stop the judge's son from being kidnapped -- before traveling down, picking out the old wounds, the scars faded, the broken bones mended, but the pain was never really gone.

That was something else he and Finch shared -- an understanding of pain. His wasn't as tangible as Finch's -- a damaged rotator cuff acted up every now and again, but he didn't have the same kind of constant physical pain -- but they both knew what it was to suffer. Hadn't they suffered enough? Didn't they deserve something better?

Reese shaved and brushed his teeth, his thoughts dwelling on Finch's injuries, both new and old, and how best to be intimate with him without causing him pain. He wanted to touch him, to kiss him, to taste him, to hold him -- intercourse was out of the question. Not only didn't he have condoms or lube, but he wanted to take it slow, to not rush Finch's first time. There would only be one first time, and Reese wanted to make it unforgettable, a memory to cherish, not one to regret.

He spat toothpaste foam into the sink, rinsed it away, and wiped his mouth with a hand towel. His gaze strayed across the counter, to his gun sitting beside the bottle of whiskey. He had thought about it, trading in his slow death for a quick one, but it was a thought just as quickly dismissed. He wasn't a coward, or perhaps he didn't have the courage to pull the trigger -- either way, he was still there.

The question was, was Finch?

Reese turned toward the door, hitched his towel a little higher on his hips, and took a bracing breath. He was gone, he had to be. Reese walked to the door. Finch just wasn't that sort of man. Opening the door, Reese stepped out into the hall. The room was silent; Finch was gone for sure. He returned to the main room and glanced around, unsurprised, but still deeply disappointed to find Finch's clothes gone and the cell phone sitting on the end of the bed. With a sigh, Reese picked it and checked the messages and memos, hoping Finch had left him an explanation, but there was nothing. As usual.

Reese tossed the phone back down on the bed and returned to the bathroom. He regarded the whiskey for a long moment, then he picked up the bottle, unscrewed the lid, and dumped it in the sink. He told Finch he'd be waiting for his call; he couldn't do his job with a hangover. Well, he probably could have, but it wouldn't have been much fun.

Grabbing the pistol, he headed for his duffel bag of clothes beside one of the beds, but froze as a loud knock came upon the hotel room door. Who the hell could that be? The only person who knew he was there was Finch. Mouth dry, Reese walked on silent feet over to the door, standing to one side with the pistol held ready.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Room service," came the reply.

Reese tightened his grip on the gun. "I didn't order room service."

"Your friend said you'd say that." It was a man's voice, young, with a slight Midwest accent. "He left a note for you."

 _Friend?_ Warily, Reese opened the door, ready to shoot though the wood if the young man made any sudden moves. He certainly looked the part, dressed in a smart uniform with a wheeled cart beside him, laid out with two covered dishes and a carafe of orange juice nestled into a bucket of ice. He handed over a folded piece of hotel stationary. Reese regarded him for another moment -- if he was an Agency assassin or a hired gun or an undercover cop, he deserved an Academy Award for his performance.

He still kept the young man in his periphery as he unfolded the note and read the single line written in Finch's neat, precise handwriting -- _Breakfast is on me._ He signed it with a large, elegant _F_. Nothing else. Reese even turned the paper over to be sure. Barely able to stifle his sigh, Reese stepped back from the door, hiding the pistol behind his back, and motioned for the young man to wheel the cart in.

"Sorry about the towel," Reese said. "I just got out of the shower."

"Not a problem, sir," the young man said, pushing the cart over to the small table standing before the window. He turned to face Reese. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"No, that'll do," Reese said and he headed for the door. "Hang on, my wallet's around here somewhere-"

"Thank you, sir, but it's not necessary," the young man said. "Your friend already covered the bill and left a very generous tip. If you need anything else, just let us know."

Reese watched him leave, then turned to the covered dishes. The smell of food made his stomach growl and he allowed himself a small smile, glad that there were two helpings. He was starving. Maybe Finch couldn't stay, but he did care, in his own way. Lifting one of the stainless steel covers, Reese raised his eyebrows, surprised and touched by the thoughtfulness of the selection -- Eggs Benedict. Reese smiled again at the memory of that morning, the two of them in that little cafe, the start of another guarded exchange and then...It hadn't been vital information by any means, but it had meant so much.

Placing the cover back on the tray to keep his breakfast warm, Reese laid the gun on the table and crossed the room to his duffel bag. He slipped into a faded pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt before sitting down at the table. He had just unrolled his silverware from the linen napkin when a muted _click_ from across the room caused his head to whip around. The door swung open and Reese grabbed his pistol, rising to his feet and taking aim as a slender figure limped into the room.

"Finch," Reese said, lowering the weapon and sliding the safety back on. "You...you came back."

"I had an errand to run," Finch said, coming over to the food cart, his expression neutral and his gaze rigidly avoiding Reese. "What's good here?" he asked, sounding casual enough, but Reese could see the tightness in his frame, the nervous energy in his hands as he began setting the table, laying out the silverware with neatness and precision. He poured them each a glass of orange juice and then, with the quickest of glances, looked up at Reese before taking a seat at the table.

Reese had never seen Finch look so guarded, so unsure. He didn't know how to feel about that. Finch was nervous, perhaps even afraid, but he was _there_ , he had come back, when he could have easily gone home, or back to the library. That took courage.

Reese sat down and mimicked Finch by draping his napkin across his lap. He picked up his fork, set it down again, and took a sip of his juice instead, staring at Finch over the rim of the glass. Finch kept his gaze on his plate. Reese found himself watching Finch's hands, his deft fingers manipulating the knife and fork with the skill of a surgeon. Reese's eyes tracked each small bite from the plate to Finch's lips, lingering on a speck of hollandaise sauce at the corner of his mouth, Reese's fingers twitching as he resisted the urge to reach across the small table and wipe it away.

Finch swallowed and cleared his throat. "Eat your breakfast, Mr. Reese," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

Reese felt the color rise into his face as he looked down at his plate. For a few minutes, the room heard only the soft sounds of two men enjoying a quiet breakfast, but then the silence began to weigh heavy on Reese, and a horde of unasked questions crowded to the forefront of his mind. He ignored the ones that shouted most insistently at him, knowing he'd never get a straight answer out of Finch, and instead settled on a less volatile topic of conversation.

"So, did you ever find out anything more about our friend, Mr. Allen?"

"No," Finch said with a small shake of his head, "and I don't expect to. I sent his gun to Fusco, but I'm not holding my breath."

"He didn't say anything while he was...questioning you?"

"I believe the word you were looking for was 'torturing'," Finch said blandly, "and no, he didn't. He just kept asking who I worked for and why you were following him."

"How did he see me?" Reese asked, frowning. "No one ever sees me. And how did he find the library?"

"Followed you, I imagine," Finch said.

Reese stiffened. "I would have known if I'd been followed," he said. "I'm good at my job."

"Yes," Finch said, "but it would be arrogant to assume that you're the only one who is. Mr. Allen was a wake-up call. We need to be more careful."

"I think you mean _I_ need to be more careful," Reese said, his frown deepening. "It was all my fault. He saw me, he followed me, and it almost got you killed."

"Let's not go there, Mr. Reese," Finch said, pausing to wipe his mouth on his napkin. "I'm certain I've put you in harm's way far more often than you have me. We both knew the dangers when we started this. We don't need to keep score."

"You're saying 'we' a lot," Reese noted.

Finch glanced across the table at him, catching and holding his gaze for a moment before looking away again. His poise and control was something to admire, especially when he looked Reese in the eye and it became evident just how thin this veneer of outward calm was. "I think the use of singular pronouns doesn't have quite the same effect anymore," he said. "We might as well acknowledge this for what it is -- a partnership."

Reese couldn't help but smile. "Does this mean I get a raise?"

"All you ever had to do was ask," Finch said, a darting glance belying a possible second meaning to his words. Reese sat back in his chair, brushing his knuckles along his lower lip as he regarded Finch, watching the rigid man struggle to maintain his composure. A slight flush crept up from under Finch's stiff collar, his breathing sped up, and his fingers fidgeted with his silverware as he worked on chewing his breakfast; he seemed to be having difficulty swallowing. A dry mouth, perhaps? He reached for his glass, his hand trembling for just a moment.

"And what if I asked for something else?" Reese asked, his voice low and soft.

"Do you have something specific in mind, or are we being hypothetical?" Finch wiped his mouth again, then set his napkin on the table beside his plate, his fingers toying with his fork, but not picking it up.

"I want you, Finch," Reese said, his heart beginning to pound as the calm veneer cracked, Finch's fork clattering against his plate as he suddenly pulled his hands back and stood. Reese forced himself to remain seated, not wanting to compound one mistake with another. He shouldn't have been so forward, so direct. Aggressive tactics were not going to work with this man.

"That's what I thought you wanted," Finch said, a tightness in his voice. He slipped his hands into his pockets and looked down at Reese, his blue eyes dark, the pupils dilated. "Please don't expect too much from me, Mr. Reese," he said, pulling his hands back out and setting a box of condoms and a bottle of lubricant on the table. "It's been a long time...and I'm not the man I used to be."

"You...You've done this...before?" Reese asked, feeling like he'd been knocked upside the head.

Finch arched an eyebrow. "You thought-- Ah, is that why you started this? The thrill of unexplored territory, the challenge of seducing a straight man, the conquest of deflowering a virgin? Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Reese, but I am neither straight nor a virgin." He started to turn away, but Reese reached out, catching him by the hand.

"That's _not_ why," he said, slowly rising to his feet and taking a step toward Finch. "Yes, that's what I thought, but the fact that I was wrong makes no difference. It doesn't change the way I feel about you. It doesn't change anything. Well--" The corner of his mouth quirked in a small smile. "It changes one thing -- The pressure's off me to make your first time the most utterly mind-blowing experience you've ever had."

"Sounds like I should have kept my mouth shut," Finch said, a slight hoarseness in his voice as he pulled his hand out of Reese's and unbuttoned his suit jacket. He shrugged out of it and draped it over the back of the chair, then moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. He drew a hesitant breath, one hand reaching up to loosen his tie. "That's all right," he said finally, "it's not my mind that I was hoping you'd blow, anyway."

Reese raised his eyebrows as the blood rushed to a certain part of his anatomy, for a moment making it hard to think. "Oh, Finch," he whispered and leaned toward him, stopping abruptly as Finch tensed. He was like a skittish colt, in need of a gentle, guiding hand. Slowly, Reese closed the distance between them, reaching up to run his fingers down the cool silk of Finch's tie. He stopped before their lips touched, hanging back, waiting for Finch to come to him. Finch hesitated, his breathing ragged, and Reese could almost hear the circuits buzzing inside his head, listing the pros and cons, weighing the risks and rewards, crunching numbers, analyzing data, calculating outcomes--

"Quit thinking so much and just kiss me," Reese whispered. "Please, Fin-" Warm, trembling lips pressed against his, silencing him, and Reese let his eyes slide closed. It was perfect. It was everything he'd thought it would be and more. His hands found Finch's hips and he couldn't stop himself from drawing the smaller man up against him, the feel of Finch's stiff body against his own like the touch of a long absent lover.

Finch pressed his hands flat against Reese's chest and Reese faltered, drawing back to look into Finch's eyes, both of them out of breath and flushed. Had he changed his mind? After a moment, Finch swallowed hard, a determined sort of look replacing the hesitation, and he eased one hand up Reese's chest, his fingers caressing the side of Reese's neck before sliding into his hair. Reese closed his eyes, a long, low moan rising up in his throat as Finch's fingertips played across his scalp, making his skin prickle. He tilted his head into Finch's hand and opened his eyes, catching Finch off guard.

The walls slammed shut around Finch, presenting his usual guarded eyes and schooled expression, but not fast enough. Reese had seen beneath the surface, had glimpsed a churning sea of emotion so deep it was a wonder Finch could keep his head above water. The need in those blue eyes, the desperate, aching loneliness, was like looking into his own soul.

Finch drew back, wordlessly unbuttoning his vest as he walked toward one of the two beds. Reese followed, stepping up behind him and placing his hands lightly on Finch's shoulders, feeling the taut muscles, the rigid frame. He let Finch slip out of the vest and then leaned down, pressing his lips to the side of Finch's neck and nuzzling behind his ear, his only reward the slight catch in Finch's breath and the tremor that ran through his body, but it was enough. Finch wasn't going surrender easily -- he was too controlled to just _give in_ \-- but Reese knew how to wear a man down, how to find their weakness, how to breach their defenses. He was more used to using pain to get what he wanted, but he hadn't forgotten how to be gentle.

Finch's tie whispered beneath the fold of his collar as Finch pulled it free and let it fall to the bed. He unbuttoned his shirt, but stepped away when Reese tried to slide it off his shoulders. Finch turned around, Reese's gaze moving slowly down his body, the unbuttoned shirt making him look deliciously flustered and disheveled, but the bandage in the middle of his chest was a silent, solemn reminder of how quickly things could go wrong, how tenuous their existence was, how precious each moment they had together.

"Take off your shirt," Finch said and Reese felt an unexpected thrill race through him. Maybe Finch _didn't_ need to surrender. Grabbing the bottom of his T-shirt, Reese drew it off over his head and let it fall to the floor. Finch's gaze drifted slowly down his chest, lingering, his eyes absolutely devouring the sight before him, and Reese suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he started to shove them into his pockets, but then changed his mind and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops instead.

A small, soft smile graced Finch's lips as he took a step backward and sat on the foot of the bed. "Come here, Mr. Reese," he murmured. Reese took a step toward the bed, not sure what Finch wanted him to do, and Finch turned his gaze upward. "Closer." Reese hesitated before taking another step, a deep and resounding ache sounding inside him as he realized that the crotch of his jeans, the faded denim stretched tight over his confined erection, was tantalizingly close to Finch's mouth. Eyes hooded, he stared down at Finch, his breathing harsh and ragged in his ears.

Finch reached out, fingertips grazing the bulge in Reese's jeans and forcing a startled gasp from his lips. Reese groaned, trembling inside as Finch rolled his hand over and dragged his knuckles down the clothed length of him. Without further preamble, Finch popped the button on Reese's jeans and drew the zipper down, arching his eyebrows as he discovered that Reese hadn't bothered to put on underwear after his shower.

"How...convenient," Finch said, and Reese took one more step toward him, his jeans sliding down his hips as he straddled Finch's legs. Freed from its confines, Reese's cock bobbed in the space between them, the head warmed by Finch's breath. Finch rolled his eyes upward, meeting Reese's gaze, and then leaned forward, his lips parting.

"Oh, God, Finch," Reese whispered, his voice hoarse and tight as the warmth of Finch's mouth surrounded the head of his cock, such wonderful wet heat, that tongue, so deft with words, now teasing all his most sensitive places, making the breath catch in his throat. Wrapping one hand around the base, Finch began to slowly bob his head, letting a little more into his mouth each time. Reese stared down, enraptured by the sight of Finch, _his_ Finch, skin flushed and eyes darkened with lust, Reese's cock sliding between his lips, filling his mouth--

Reese couldn't stop himself from reaching up, from laying a light hand on Finch's head, his fingers combing through the soft brown hair. His other hand cupped Finch's cheek before sliding down his neck, slipping beneath his shirt, gliding out to his shoulder, needing contact, needing the feel of smooth skin beneath his calloused hand. Finch seemed to need it, too. He moaned around Reese's cock, an unexpected sensation that made Reese draw a sharp breath and step back, closing his eyes until the urge passed.

"That was close," Reese said, looking back down at Finch, sitting still and quiet on the end of the bed, watching Reese and waiting. After a moment, Reese finished slipping out of his jeans, letting them fall beside his T-shirt, and he stood naked before Finch, gratified and reassured by the color that spread across Finch's chest and up his neck, by the hunger in those blue eyes. It wasn't inconceivable that Finch might just be doing this to keep Reese happy, to keep him around, because Finch needed him for their work, but some reactions could not be faked, even by a master of emotional camouflage like Finch.

Slowly, Reese sank to his knees before Finch, laying his hands upon the other man's leg and sliding them down his calf, to his foot. Gently, Reese removed one shoe, then the other, and set them aside before peeling off Finch's socks. Reese hesitated, and then leaned close, laying his head in Finch's lap, his cheek resting against one thigh. With that guy in the alley, it had all been about sex and sensation, fucking hard and fast, trying to reach the destination with little thought to the journey. This was different, and Reese wanted Finch to know that.

Reese closed his eyes as a soft hand stroked the side of his face, fingers sliding through his hair, and he sighed, the darkness within him lifting for the first time in a very long time, but like the brief Alaskan dawn in the depths of winter, it couldn't last, and after a minute, Reese raised his head, for a moment unable to meet Finch's gaze. It frightened him, knowing how much power Finch had over him, power he had willingly surrendered. Anyone who could make him feel whole and alive also held the power to make him feel broken and dead.

He glanced up, into Finch's eyes, and was surprised by the understanding he found there - not surprised that Finch understood, but that he allowed Reese to see it. The moment slipped away and the walls came back up, but Reese was starting to think that Finch had been guarding himself for so long, it was reflexive, an instinct he found hard to resist, and when Reese did see through the defenses, it was because Finch wanted him to.

Sitting back on his heels, Reese took one of Finch's hands and coaxed him to his feet, neither of them saying a word as Reese unbuckled Finch's belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, and guided them down Finch's legs, careful not to let the material get caught on the bandage on Finch's shin. Placing a hand on Reese's shoulder to steady himself, Finch stepped out of his pants and Reese moved them out of the way. Looking up at Finch, Reese let the image burn itself into his memory, the white dress shirt hanging open, elegant black silk boxers underneath, soft skin flushed, lips parted, eyes wide.

Reese held his breath as he slowly drew Finch's boxers down, feeling like a kid on Christmas, peeling back the bright, shiny paper to discover that the thing he had wanted most in the world was finally his. It was nothing to write home about, but it wasn't anything to be ashamed of, either. It was Finch, and that made it perfect. Letting the silk pool around Finch's ankles, Reese ran his hands up Finch's legs, feeling him tremble as Reese leaned close and nuzzled the soft, pale skin of his inner thigh.

Finch drew a shuddering breath as Reese turned his head, the dark tangle of wiry curls tickling his nose, his breath and then his lips playing over the velvet skin of Finch's sac as he opened his mouth and drew one testicle inside, his tongue laving the small, firm globe--

Reese jerked back, turning his head away as a sudden sneeze took him by surprise, his ears ringing in the silence that followed. Then Finch started to laugh. Reese glanced up at him, rubbing at his nose to chase away the ghost sensation that lingered, and smiled. It was the first real laugh Reese had heard out of him.

"Sorry to ruin the mood," Reese said, rising to his feet.

Finch sobered instantly. "What? It was just a sneeze."

"I'm not handing you your clothes and telling you to get out," Reese said with a crooked grin as he grabbed the condoms and lube off the table and carried them over to the nightstand. When he turned back around, he noted that Finch had self-consciously drawn his shirt closed, adjusting the tails to hang down in front of his crotch, his fingers absently smoothing a wrinkle in the material. "In fact," Reese said, walking slowly toward him, "I hope you cleared your schedule for the day, because we could be here a while."

Finch swallowed hard. "Now, Mr. Reese, I warned you not to expect too much."

"Relax, Finch; I'm not expecting anything," Reese said, drawing close. "You're here, and that's enough for me." His hands found the front of Finch's shirt, pushing it open and sliding it off his shoulders. Finch made a wordless noise of protest, but Reese silenced him with a kiss, sliding his tongue past Finch's lips as the shirt fluttered to the floor. Hands sliding down Finch's back, Reese eased closer, pressing his naked body against Finch's. Finch gasped into Reese's mouth, every muscle tensing, his hands clutching at Reese's shoulders as Reese rocked his hips, rubbing their cocks together, the delicious friction of skin on skin making his head spin.

Finch groaned and pulled back. "Please, Mr. Reese..." he whispered.

Reese closed the distance between them, brushing his lips against Finch's. "I'm going to make you call me John," Reese murmured. "Now lie down; I want you in my mouth."

"You're a fiend," Finch said, breathless.

Reese smirked. "You have no idea." He stepped away from Finch, grabbing the pillows off of one bed and tossing them on the other, letting Finch arrange them himself and not saying anything when it felt like he was taking forever. Reese could tell he was nervous again, and if the precise placement of a pillow helped him quiet his mind and compose himself, then Finch could play with the pillows for as long as he wanted. Finally, Finch lowered himself to the bed and reclined into his carefully arranged pillows, his neck and shoulders supported.

For a long moment, Reese just stared, his gaze moving slowly over the feast spread before him. Finch looked distinctly uncomfortable with the scrutiny and Reese couldn't help but be amused by the irony of a man who watched everyone not liking to be watched. Moving slowly, Reese climbed onto the bed with Finch, his heart beginning to race anew as the reality of what he was doing washed over him. It was so easy to get caught up in the moment and not realize what it meant.

Reese crawled over Finch, kissing his lips, his jaw, his throat, starting at his mouth and working his way down. He took his time, reveling in the tiny gasps and moans that he coaxed from the reserved man, nipping and sucking on Finch's nipples, teasing them into tight, tender nubs. Finch buried his hands in Reese's hair, his breath growing hard and fast as Reese kissed down to his navel, running the tip of his tongue around the rim before sliding farther south.

Hovering over Finch's stiff cock, Reese looked up, meeting his fevered gaze before opening his mouth and taking as much of Finch as he could. He drew back slowly, lips tight against spit-slicked skin.

"Oh... _Oh_..." Finch gasped, repeating the single syllable like a personal mantra as Reese swirled his tongue around the head, sucking and licking before sliding back down the shaft. Reese couldn't believe how natural this felt, how good, how right, to have Finch beneath him, panting and trembling, his legs shifting restlessly, his fingers combing through Reese's hair, but in the back of his mind, in a place he didn't want to acknowledge, he knew that nothing this perfect came without a price. It was the law of the universe, a cosmic scale struggling to maintain balance; for every moment of pleasure, an equal amount of pain must be suffered. Reese could handle pain, and if the universe was willing, he'd bear Finch's share, too, but he knew from experience that the universe wasn't always so accommodating.

Finch moaned, long and low, his body taut, his hands curling into fists in Reese's hair. "Mr. Reese...Mr. Reese, I...I'm...You might want to...stop now..."

But Reese didn't want to stop. He began to hum, bobbing his head and sucking hard, one hand lightly tugging and stroking Finch's balls.

Finch tensed, lifting his hips off the bed, and cried out. "Oh! Oh, John!"

Reese slowed, but didn't stop, swallowing every drop and licking him clean as he began to grow soft. Raising his head, he regarded Finch, lying dazed and breathless in his carefully arranged pillows, and Reese smiled softly to himself. Crawling back up Finch's body, Reese leaned down for a kiss, only to have Finch turn his head away. "What's wrong?" Reese asked, his voice soft. Was this guilt, shame? Or had Finch gotten what he wanted and now had no further need of Reese?

"Sorry," Finch said, "I just...don't want to taste myself in your mouth." He seemed almost embarrassed by the confession.

"Oh," Reese said, relieved that that's all it was. "I'll be right back, then." As he strode toward the bathroom, he suddenly stopped and glanced back. "Don't go anywhere," he said. "I'm not finished with you yet."

"I'm all yours, Mr. Reese," Finch said, looking truly peaceful and relaxed for the first time in all the months they'd known each other. Smiling, Reese hurried into the bathroom and cracked open the tiny, complimentary bottle of mouthwash sitting beside the sink. "Although," Finch called as Reese took a swig, "you may come to regret your zealousness. I'm not twenty anymore; once may be all you get."

Reese swished for another moment, then spat into the sink. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Finch. You're only a few years older than I am."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Reese," Finch said dryly as Reese returned. "It's more than a few."

Reese stopped beside the bed, trying to look at Finch with a critical eye, which of course made Finch fidget uncomfortably. "Can't be more than ten years," Reese decided.

"Try fifteen," Finch said.

Reese's eyebrows shot up. "No. Seriously?"

Finch nodded.

"Well, you look damn good, old man," Reese said with a crooked grin as he climbed onto the bed and grabbed the lube off the nightstand. Warming the little bottle in his hand, Reese captured Finch's mouth, sliding up against his body and letting his unoccupied hand wander over Finch's skin, savoring the warmth, the softness, the tiny noises Finch probably didn't realize he was making. Reese was hard and aching when he finally drew back. "Are you sure you want this?" he asked. "It's all right if it's too soon."

"I'm sure," Finch said. "I want this more than anything. And I want this..." He reached down and ran his fingers up Reese's cock. "Right now."

Reese groaned low in his throat and resisted the urge to give Finch what he asked for. He popped the cap off the bottle of lube, then hesitated. "How do you want to do this?" he asked, unsure of the extent of Finch's physical limitations.

"As long as you don't get too creative," Finch said with a small smirk, "I think I can manage."

"Manage..." Reese repeated. "Finch, I don't want to do anything that will hurt you."

For a brief moment, Finch's expression softened. "Everything hurts, John. Every day, no matter what I do or don't do, I'm in pain. I've learned not to let it keep me from doing what I want."

Reese knew it had taken a lot for Finch to admit what Reese had suspected for some time, and he appreciated the honesty, but that didn't mean he had to like what Finch told him. "The other night," Reese said, "you said lying on your side wasn't too bad. Do you think you could manage that?"

"It shouldn't be a problem," Finch said, frowning slightly, "but isn't that a little...awkward?"

"You let me worry about that," Reese said, leaning down and kissing him again. Finch rolled onto his side, facing away from Reese, and repositioned the pillows to support his head. "How does that feel?" Reese asked.

"Fine," Finch replied, and Reese wished he could believe him. Reese ran a finger lightly over the scar at the back of Finch's neck and felt him shudder. "Compared to an average day, Mr. Reese, this is heaven," Finch said softly. "I appreciate your concern, but I don't want to be treated like a cripple."

Reese sat up, leaning over Finch so that he could look him in the eye. "I could never think of you like that," he said, "but I also can't be insensitive to the fact that your body has limitations. It's a fact, not a problem." He hesitated. "Letting me care about you doesn't make you weak."

He lay back down and carefully drizzled lubricant on his fingertips, pressing his lips to Finch's shoulder as he eased his slippery fingers between Finch's cheeks. Finch drew a shuddering breath, his body trembling as Reese spread the lube across his opening, that tight ring of muscle softening at his touch. He _had_ done this before.

Reese drew back, adding more lube to his fingers before capping the bottle and setting it aside. He slid closer to Finch, kissing his shoulder, his neck, letting his lips play over the scar as he slowly eased a single finger into Finch. Finch tensed at the intrusion, but it was just the body's natural reaction. Reese waited for him to adjust and relax, and then began spreading the lube as deep as he could, waiting until he heard Finch moan before adding a second finger. Finch shifted his hips as Reese stretched him, pushing back against him, his breathing harsh and ragged.

"Please..." Finch whispered. "John, please..."

Reese inserted a third finger, meeting only token resistance. Withdrawing, he reached over Finch to grab the box of condoms off the nightstand, tearing into the box and quickly rolling one down over his cock. His heart hammering inside his chest, Reese pressed the head against Finch's entrance and slid inside, his breath catching as the tight heat surrounded him.

"You all right?" Reese asked, his lips brushing against the back of Finch's neck.

"Yes," Finch gasped, his voice tight, "although 'all right' is something of an understatement."

Reese smiled and draped his arm over Finch's side, drawing him closer as he rocked his hips, small, slow movements that made Finch squirm and moan. The position did limit the depth and speed of his thrusts, but Reese wasn't interested in a hard, fast fuck, anyway. Finch was different, Finch was special; he deserved more.

Reese drew on his extensive training to resist the physical sensations, to make it last for as long as possible, but he wasn't made of stone. Finch's soft voice, his breathless moans and gasps and cries as Reese rubbed across his prostate, was the sweetest kind of sensual torture and one Reese had no defense against. His movements grew urgent, his breathing harsh and ragged against the back of Finch's neck, and he slid his hand down to Finch's cock, a few strokes all it took to prove the doubtful man wrong.

Finch came hard, his hips jerking as he spilled himself, and Reese quickly followed suit, shuddering as he filled the condom. He felt almost delirious as he lay there, both of them panting, the air perfumed by sweat and sex, his body molded against the man in his arms, the man in whose body he was slowly growing soft. It was like the last moments of a dream before reality came crashing in.


	11. Chapter 11

Finch lay quietly, staring across the room at the painting on the wall, a nondescript watercolor of an ocean scene catching the late morning light and making it appear more skillfully done than it probably was. Or maybe it wasn't the light. Maybe it was the fact that -- for that moment, at least -- he wasn't in any pain, not a single twinge or ache. He knew he had the endorphins and adrenaline to thank for that, but the one he wanted to thank was Reese. Was it a _faux pas_ to thank someone for sex? It had been so long, but it seemed like it would be.

As his breathing and heart rate returned to normal, so did the constant ache at the base of his neck and the prickling in his damaged nerves. Oh, well. It had been nice while it lasted. As the warm, post-coital haze faded, Finch slowly became aware of the sweat on his skin growing cold in the cool hotel room, the sticky splatters of semen on his stomach, and Reese's hand lingering in a very personal place. He tried to ignore these facts, to relax against Reese's warm, strong body, but his fingers kept twitching, anxious to find his handkerchief and wipe away the thick fluid on his skin.

After a few minutes, he couldn't bear it any longer. He pulled away from Reese and sat up, absently adjusting his glasses as his gaze swept the room, taking stock of where his clothes had ended up.

"Finch?" Reese said, his voice low and soft, his fingers brushing against the small of Finch's back.

"No need to be concerned, Mr. Reese," Finch said, rising to his feet. "I'd just like to take a shower, if it isn't too much of an imposition."

"Help yourself." His tone was casual, pure Reese at his finest, but Finch knew him better than to believe what he heard. He could feel Reese's gaze following him as he gathered up his boxers, shirt, and slacks before heading for the bathroom, and though he knew it would only add to Reese's concern, he couldn't bring himself to look at Reese. He didn't want to see Reese's face when he wasn't sure what his own would reveal.

In the bathroom, Finch turned on the light and shut the door, leaning back against the wood and closing his eyes, taking a moment to draw a steadying breath. He kept waiting to feel a definitive emotion in response to the events that had taken place, and his quiet, analytical mind had already compiled a list of the possibilities -- shame, joy, guilt, satisfaction, remorse, love, anger -- but they were just words, and the nebulous feeling inside him that was neither thought nor emotion refused to be classified.

He lay his clothes upon the counter, turned on the faucet in the shower, and stood with his back to the mirror as he peeled off the gauze bandages and waited for the water to heat up. Was it a bad sign that he wouldn't even look at himself? Setting his glasses beside his shirt, he stepped into the stall and pulled the door closed behind him, a soft groan escaping him as he turned his back into the steaming spray.

Washing away the semen and lubricant made him feel more normal, though he was hesitant to say he felt better. To feel better, one had to first feel something at a level low enough that the change was an improvement. It was quite possible he actually felt worse, since he had yet to decide how he felt in the first place. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and let the water rain down on his head, shoulders, and neck, the pressure of the gentle spray bringing to mind the soft caress of Reese's hands, his lips...

Finch shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping one towel around his waist before grabbing a second to dry off with. After fluffing the water from his hair, he took a moment to smooth it back down before blotting the moisture from his wounds. He hadn't brought any extra bandages, but the flesh was looking a little over-hydrated and probably needed to breathe anyway. Picking up his glasses, he dried the condensation from the lenses, took a deep breath, and slipped them back on.

A middle-aged man with pale skin and a few extra pounds around the middle stared back at him from behind startled blue eyes, a man unused to such scrutiny, a man who fidgeted and looked away from his own reflection. He could tell Reese had not been lying when he listed all his reasons for liking Finch, but he had to wonder how Reese could see all those things when all Finch could see was a failure. All his skill and knowledge and money was utterly useless without Reese. Without Reese, he had nothing.

Licking suddenly dry lips, Finch grabbed his boxers and began to dress. He couldn't lose Reese because of this. He couldn't go back to watching helplessly as the Machine spat out number after number -- people with lives and families and hopes and dreams, people he couldn't save. He couldn't go back to marking graves with pictures and string. He couldn't shoulder this burden alone again.

He buttoned his cuffs, checked his hair, hung up the towels, and turned off the light, standing in the darkness for a moment before opening the door. Barefoot, he made his way slowly into the hotel room, his shoulders squared and jaw set, trying to prepare himself for whatever he might find.

Reese lay upon the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of dark blue briefs, and glanced up from the room service menu as Finch hobbled in. For a moment, the dark, observant eyes of an agent regarded Finch, missing nothing and inferring everything, a shrewd and finely-honed mind trimming the fat, dismissing the irrelevant, and gauging the situation. Then Reese smiled.

"I'm feeling a little under-dressed," he said in that throaty, teasing whisper of his. It had been so annoying at first, so unexpected from a man who should have been as cold and hardened as steel, but now...Finch couldn't imagine their relationship without it. "I was going to order lunch from room service, but we can go out to eat, if you like."

Finch made his way over to the table and took a seat to put his socks and shoes back on. "I need to go," he said. Out of the corner of he eye, he saw Reese sit up and set the menu down. "Detective Fusco will probably have the ballistics back on Mr. Allen's weapon," he said before Reese could speak. He stood, lifted his jacket off the back of the chair, and headed for the unoccupied bed to collect his tie and waistcoat. "I'll call you." He started for the door.

"When you have a new number?" Reese inquired, his tone guarded.

Finch glanced back, forcing himself to meet Reese's gaze. "At the latest," he said and walked away. At the door, he hesitated. "Thank you for a truly wonderful time."

"Finch, wait," Reese said and Finch heard the bed springs creak as Reese got up. Stepping out into the hall, Finch pulled the door closed behind him and set out for the elevator, listening for the door to open, praying that it wouldn't, hoping that Reese had more dignity than to chase him down in just his underwear. Halfway down the hall, Finch felt relieved at the silence behind him. Three-quarters of the way to the elevator, he had to fight the urge to look back. As he pushed the down-arrow button, he frowned, annoyed at himself for feeling disappointed that Reese hadn't come after him. This wasn't one of those inane romance movies that he so despised.

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Finch stepped into the empty car with a sigh and turned around, pressing the ground floor button before glancing up. For one surreal moment, he felt certain he must be dreaming, his breath catching as Reese ran down the hall toward him, barefoot and shirtless, but thankfully wearing his jeans. Finch just stood and stared as the elevator doors began to slide closed.

"Finch!"

Finch didn't move, but his heart started to race. He didn't want to do this, he _couldn't_ do this, not now-

Reese's hand shot into the gap between the closing doors, catching one side and shoving them back open, his muscles flexing in his naked torso. Finch glanced away, the silence oppressive as Reese stood there, holding the doors open as he caught his breath.

"Finch, step out of the elevator," Reese said finally.

Finch shook his head. "Mr. Reese, I really don't--"

"I'm more than capable of dragging you out of there," Reese said, his voice low, "and don't think I won't."

Swallowing hard, Finch stepped off the elevator and headed back down the hall. Reese caught him by the arm and turned him around. "Did I do something wrong?" Reese asked and Finch felt himself sinking beneath the weight of the pain in Reese's eyes.

Finch opened his mouth, closed it again, and sighed. "I don't know," he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "I don't know how I feel about what we did and...I don't like that. I need to know before I can take appropriate action, because I don't want to make a mistake, I don't want to ruin what we had- What we _have_. I _can't_ go back to the way things were without you."

"Neither can I," Reese said. "It would kill me, which is why I won't let anything ruin our partnership. Finch, no matter what happens, I will always do my job."

Finch closed his eyes as the pressure in his chest eased. "Thank you, that is a relief." He drew a steadying breath and looked up at Reese. "This is a situation I never anticipated being in."

"No contingency plan, huh?" A small smile tugged at the corner of Reese's mouth. "Don't worry, Finch, I have a feeling that you're right -- we need to take a step back and make sure we know what we're getting into. But...if it helps clarify things, I'd like you to take this into consideration." He closed the distance between them, one hand finding the back of Finch's neck, the other grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him up against Reese's body, their lips meeting in a deep and fevered kiss.

Finch was flushed and out of breath when Reese finally released him. He stepped back, furtively glancing down the hall to make sure no one had seen them. "Duly noted," he said, drawing a soft chuckle from Reese. He pressed the elevator button again and waited for the car to rise back up from the ground floor. As the doors opened, Reese reached over and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I had a great time, too," he said. "Thanks."

Finch nodded and stepped into the elevator. "I _will_ call you."

"I'll be waiting," Reese said as the doors slid closed.


	12. Chapter 12

Reese returned to his room, his body filled with a nervous sort of energy that made his muscles ache. He considered going down to the hotel gym, but settled for doing a few quick sets of push-ups and crunches, just enough to dispel the restlessness and quiet his racing mind. He knew exactly how Finch felt, not knowing, because he felt it, too -- a swirling storm of thoughts and emotions, guilt and joy and fear and love, all warring within him, a screaming, raging battle threatening to tear him apart. Unlike Finch, however, his first impulse was not to quietly and logically examine this Gordian knot until he had unraveled the problem, but to slice through the center, to take action, to _do something_.

Finch was right, though. They needed to think this through. Impulsive action carried risks they did not need to take. Neither of them had done anything wrong...yet. They needed to keep it that way.

Picking his shirt up off the floor, Reese turned it right-side-out and slipped it on over his head before starting to clear the table of their breakfast dishes, piling the plates, glasses, and silverware back on the cart. As jumbled as his feelings were, one thing he did know for certain: he didn't want to go back to the way things were. He could, and he would, if Finch wanted him to, needed him to, but he would not give up this intimacy without a fight. If Finch decided they couldn't have a physical relationship, Reese could live with that, but if he wanted to establish that professional distance again, to keep Reese at arm's length all the time--

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. Finch? He took a step toward the door, but stopped. Why would Finch knock? He'd already let himself in twice. Perhaps another surprise from room service? He hesitated, then grabbed his gun off the table and headed for the door.

A woman stood in the corridor, her auburn hair short, her make-up subdued, her pale blue blouse and navy skirt and black leather handbag reserved and professional. "Hi, sorry to bother you," she said. "I'm staying in the room just across the hall and I was wondering if you had change for a twenty? I ordered lunch from room service and then realized I don't have any small bills for a tip."

"Sure," Reese said with a smile. "No problem. I'll be right back." He walked away from the door, leaving it to close on its own, and was almost to the main room when he realized that he should have heard the latch click, and hadn't. He looked over his shoulder and started to turn. The woman stepped into the hall, pointing a black handgun at him. He raised his arm; a muzzle flash flared in the dark hallway and he staggered back, feeling like he'd been kicked in the chest. He squeezed the trigger and she fell against the wall, her left leg buckling as the bullet tore through her thigh.

Reese took a gasping breath that made him want to cough, the pain worse than every time he'd had his ribs broken. He glanced down, shocked by the amount of blood that had spread across his chest, his T-shirt dark and wet. He heard a noise and glanced over at the woman as she raised her pistol again and fired. The impact spun him around, he felt himself falling, and then everything went black.


	13. Chapter 13

With a sigh, Finch sank into the chair at his workstation, pulled his keyboard close, and logged into his e-mail account. Waiting for him was the ballistics report from Detective Fusco, sent just that morning. Finch had to admit, the dirty cop did prove useful once in a while. Taking a sip of his green tea, Finch opened the e-mail and the attached file, a small frown creasing his brow as the information filled his computer screen.

The gun was a match to seven unsolved murders committed over the last three years, all of them clean, professional-looking hits, no connection between the victims, no evidence left at the scene of the crimes. Finch's heart began to pound in his chest as he scanned the list of victims. The police were wrong -- they had a connection. They had all been picked by the Machine, back when Finch was helpless to stop the crimes.

Turning to his board of numbers, pictures, and string, Finch picked out their faces, knowing each photo, each newspaper clipping by name, by sight, and he felt a rush of elation. He hadn't been able to save them, but like Dana Miller, he had finally found them justice.

He reached for his phone to call Reese and tell him the good news, when something sparked inside his brain, something half-forgotten from those dark, hopeless years. The police had suspected they were the work of the same perpetrator, and Finch had flagged each one with a piece of blue string tied around the pushpin that held it to the wall. So why were there only seven victims on the list, but more than a dozen pieces of blue string? Why use a different gun half of the time? He could see using a different weapon for each crime, or losing the original and getting a replacement, but there was no chronological order to the use of this gun as opposed to the other. It was almost as if it was someone else completely--

Finch drew a sharp breath and grabbed his cell, dialing Reese and pacing before the wall of the dead as he listened to it ring. Finally, the call connected. "He had a partner," Finch said before Reese even had a chance to speak. "Ballistics came back on the gun--"

"Hold on there, Mr. Friend-of-a-friend," came a familiar voice that most certainly wasn't Reese.

"Detective?" Finch frowned. He was certain he hadn't dialed the wrong number. "How did you get this phone?"

"I swiped it before it could be collected as evidence. You're welcome," Fusco said.

"Evidence?" Finch repeated, suddenly out of breath and cold. "Detective, what happened?"

"Looks like our friend's luck finally ran out," Fusco said. "EMS got here just before we did and took him away, but...it didn't look good. He took one in the chest and one in the head. The shooter got away, but it looks like our friend might have wounded him. I gotta go or Carter's going to come looking for me. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

The line went dead and Finch slowly brought the phone away from his ear, just staring at it. This couldn't be happening. This could _not_ be happening. Reese couldn't be- He couldn't be dead. He couldn't be. Like an automaton, his body numb and cold, Finch walked to his workstation and sank into his chair. For a second, he stared at his computer, not sure what to do, and then he leaned forward, fingers dancing over the keys with determination and purpose.

Reese could not be dead, which meant he was being taken to the hospital. Finch pulled up a map of the city, locating the hospital nearest to the hotel. He was halfway down the stairs and heading for the exit before he realized that he'd visited that hospital before. It was where Dr. Tillman worked.

Pulling out his phone, he established a connection with her cell, eavesdropping as he hailed a taxi. He could hear the muted sounds of conversation and the noise of traffic, which meant she wasn't at work. He climbed into a taxi, gave the driver the address, and dialed her number.

"Hello?" She sounded guarded, like she thought she knew who it was.

"Dr. Tillman, I need you to listen carefully. My partner has been shot and is being taken to your hospital. You know the man I'm talking about, so I'd appreciate it if we could save the interrogative questions for later. Where are you?"

She hesitated. "About six blocks from the hospital. What happened?"

"I don't know," Finch said. "I was told he was shot in the chest and in the-- in the head." He cleared his throat, trying to hide the catch, the stutter in his voice. "I'm on my way there, but I know hospital policy; they won't tell me anything. Can you keep your cell with you and call me as soon as you know something?" If she kept the phone with her, she wouldn't even have to call, but he kept that to himself. Some people took offense to being spied on.

"I'll do what I can," she said. "He's a good man."

"Thank you, Dr. Tillman," Finch said and hung up. He put his earpiece in and connected back to her phone as the cab pulled up in front of the hospital. After paying the driver, he went into the emergency room waiting area and took a seat, pretending to look through a fishing magazine while he waited for Dr. Tillman to arrive. He heard her enter the hospital, leaving the street noise behind and doubling the ambient conversation. He heard her ask someone about recent gunshot victims and he sat forward in his chair, holding his breath as she was directed to trauma room three. He heard a heavy door open, machines beeping, metal clanking, raised, anxious voices--

"Oh, my god," Dr. Tillman whispered, then louder, "Do you need a hand in here?"

"Thanks, Megan, I think we got this one," said a male voice.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Home invasion, I think," said a different voice, female. "Guy took one to the chest and one to the head. He flatlined in the bus, but we got him back."

"Collapsed lung, lost about three units of blood, and as soon as he's stable, he's headed up to surgery to remove all the shrapnel floating around inside him," said the male voice. "I swear, whoever came up with those bullets that disintegrate on impact ought to be shot with them."

"Then again," said the female, "that's probably why he wasn't DOA; the bullet to the head clipped the right side of the skull and broke up."

"Still caused enough trauma to turn him into a turnip," said the unidentified man. "He'll never wake up."

"And I suppose you're a neurologist now, Steve?" Dr. Tillman said, followed by the sound of her shoving through the heavy doors. Finch tossed the magazine down and went outside, trying to keep his breathing calm and steady as he waited for her call. He heard her go somewhere quieter, a door closing and blocking out nearly all the background noise. She took a loud, shaking breath and sobbed. Finch leaned back against the cold brick facade of the hospital and stared at the rushing traffic, listening to her cry.

It was two days before Finch could get in to see Reese. During that time, he hacked the hospital records and rearranged Dr. Tillman's schedule so she could keep an eye on Reese, downloaded all hospital footage featuring Reese and studied every frame, arranged a meeting with Fusco to get Reese's phone back, and examined all the surveillance from the hotel. He had images of the woman, Mr. Allen's mysterious partner, taped all over the big, cracked window in the library, but he'd managed to find nothing on her. Without a name, she was a ghost.

What he'd not been able to do much of since the shooting was sleep or eat. He was still wearing the shirt from the day before when Dr. Tillman called, his tie tossed carelessly on the table.

"You said to call when the cops showed up," she said. "They just left -- Detectives Carter and Fusco. I'm supposed to call them if he-- when he wakes up."

"I'd like to see him now if that's possible," Finch said, ignoring her attempt at optimism. Reese had suffered a major blow to the head. The shattered bullet had spread out the impact, cracking his skull in seven places, causing bleeding and swelling in his brain. The neurosurgeon had drilled holes in his skull to relieve the pressure inside. He had less than a twenty percent chance of ever waking up, and his odds of having a full recovery were one in a million.

"He's in room 382," Dr. Tillman said. "How will I know it's you?"

"You'll know," Finch replied. "We've met before." He hung up and called his driver before heading to change his clothes. He felt almost robotic as he put on a crisp shirt and knotted his tie, empty eyes staring back at him from the mirror. The logical part of his mind understood that this was a coping mechanism, that the emotional part of him, which rarely made an appearance anyway, had checked out on an extended vacation and was sitting somewhere quiet, waiting, holding its breath.

He could not accept that a monumental change had been wrought upon his life. Yes, it was irrational. He knew the facts. He knew the odds. And yet, some small part of him still hoped desperately that when he saw Reese, when he took his hand, Reese would wake and they would go back to work and everything would be just fine.

The drive to the hospital was long and silent. As Finch made his way up to the third floor and limped through the endless maze of corridors, all he could think about was Reese. Reese would be all right, he had to be. Because Finch had no contingency plan for this. He'd put all his money on Reese. The house couldn't win again.

Stopping outside room 382, Finch took a bracing breath before opening the door and slipping inside. The steady _beep_ of a heart monitor and the rhythmic _fwoosh_ of the respirator were the only sounds in the quiet room. Finch stood beside the door, staring at the large hospital bed and its occupant. Reese's hair had been shaved off, his scalp pale with dark bruises and neat, tiny stitches piecing the skin back together. A thin tube ran out of the hole in his skull. The right side of his face was black and blue. He had tubes down his throat and up his nose, and IVs in both arms.

Finch jumped, shuffling sideways as the door opened and Dr. Tillman peeked in, looking surprised to see him. "You? Mr...Finch, wasn't it?" She stepped into the room and shut the door. "Harold Finch, with the neck pain? I suppose that was just a ruse to get close me, then?"

"Yes, though I assure you, the injury and chronic pain is very real." He gestured toward Reese. "How is he?"

"The same," Dr. Tillman replied with a sigh. "We're using medication to keep him in a coma until the swelling in his brain goes down. Then we'll wait and see what happens."

Finch nodded and cleared his throat. "Well, thank you, Doctor," he said. "I should probably be going."

She placed a hand on his arm as he turned to go. "You don't have to," she said. "You didn't come all this way just to hear what I've been telling you over the phone. If anyone bothers you, just say you're a member of St. Alice's church. They sometimes come in and sit with patients who don't have family in the area."

"Thank you, Doctor," Finch said as she left. He regarded Reese for another moment before taking a deep breath and walking over to the side of the bed. Up close, Finch found it hard to look at him, so still and damaged. This wasn't Reese. Reese was stronger than this; Reese was indestructible; Reese got shot, changed his shirt, and went back to saving the world.

Finch drew a chair over to the bedside and sat, staring at Reese's hand for a long time before reaching over and taking it. His skin was warm, but there was no life in those once strong fingers. "I'm here, John," Finch whispered. "If you can hear me, you have to come back, you have to wake up. I need you. I can't do this job without you--" His voice cracked and he fell silent. Even if Reese never recovered fully, they could find someone else to do the running and the shooting. Reese still had the knowledge, the experience, he looked at things in a way Finch couldn't.

"I need you," Finch said again after a moment. "Not just for the job. John, _I_ need you. I can't...I can't lose you, not now, not like this. John, please; come back to me."


	14. Chapter 14

He opened his eyes, one, then the other, indistinct shapes on either side of him, lights above that made his head hurt. His eyes were gritty, the lids so heavy, and let them slide closed again, letting himself drift through a hazy gray cloud. Some unknown amount of time later, a noise intruded into his peaceful semi-consciousness, a soft touch on his arm, the warmth of skin, a faint smell that meant clean...

He blinked, his vision still blurred, and turned his head toward the smell. Something moved beside him, a figure dressed in blue, dark skin, black hair, warm hands touching his arm, his face. The figure made a noise and jerked back. A stream of sounds washed over him, seeming to come from the figure, who then moved away, disappearing, leaving him alone. The noises shuffled around inside him and he blinked several more times, trying to keep his eyes open, trying to focus, to stay out of the fog. He wasn't sure why, but he felt like the sounds _meant_ something, and that he should know what.

_My God, you're awake. I'll go get the doctor._ It was like a whisper he couldn't quite hear, the meaning just out of reach, but before long he lost interest, his gaze sliding from one side of the room to the other, lingering on a stripe of gold on the wall. It was light, put there by something outside the window, and he knew that if he touched it, it would be warm, but he couldn't picture the source, couldn't think of the name for it. That bothered him for some reason, like an irritation at the back of his mind, a weight in his chest, but he wasn't sure why.

The door opened and he slowly turned his head to watch it close again. Two figures came over to him this time, the one in blue with the clean smell and someone new wearing white. They made noises at each other and at him. _Speaking,_ They were speaking. With words. He knew that. He'd always known it, he just hadn't remembered. He was suddenly tired and he let his eyes slide shut.

A hand touched his face and his eyes fluttered open, a face close to his. It was a woman, her brown hair pulled back. She spoke to him, saying one word more than the others, but he was distracted by the bitter smell on her breath. He didn't know what to call it, but it would be hot and black, something he would put in his mouth...

"John? John, can you hear me?" the woman said again. "John, do you understand me? Can you squeeze my hand?" She reached down, taking his hand. Her fingers were cold. "John, please, if you understand me, squeeze my hand." She squeezed his fingers and he looked down at their two hands, hers smaller than his, her skin lighter. It was like she wanted something, but he wasn't sure what. She squeezed his hand again and he tried to do the same to her, but nothing happened. That wasn't right. He looked over at his other hand and curled his fingers against his palm. It wasn't that hard. So why wouldn't the hand that she was holding do it too? That irritation in his brain came back, the weight in his chest greater, and he felt his eyebrows draw together. He didn't like this.

"His heart rate and BP are rising," said the person in blue, also a woman, he realized.

"He's upset," said the woman in white, her voice soft. She had something wet on her face, coming from her eyes. That meant she was sad. She reached up, her cold fingers soft against his cheek. "It's okay, John," she said. "You're okay. It's okay."

_Okay_. He knew that word. Okay was good. It made him feel better. He closed his eyes and drifted back into the fog.


	15. Chapter 15

Eight days. Eight days since the shooting and Finch _still_ had nothing on the woman, and if he didn't he knew damn well that the police were all standing around, scratching their heads and eating donuts, but that didn't stop him from calling Fusco on a daily basis. Megan called him every evening to update him on Reese's condition and to remind him to eat something and get some sleep, after she'd noticed his weight loss and the dark circles under his eyes. He wasn't expecting her to call at half past six, so when the phone rang, his thoughts automatically turned to the worst possible outcome, trying to prepare himself.

"Hello?" he answered, something he very rarely said. He took a bracing breath and waited.

"Harold, he woke up," Megan said, but there was an incongruity between her words and her voice. She sounded like someone had died. "About an hour ago. I have to let the police know, but I wanted to call you first."

"I need to see him," Finch said. "Can you wait on the police, just a half hour?"

"Yeah, I can do that," she said. "I'll see you soon." She hung up and he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. He didn't have time to wait for his car; he hailed a taxi and offered the driver an extra hundred to get him there in ten minutes. It took a bit longer than that, but Finch paid the man anyway and hurried into the hospital. At Reese's door, he paused, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

He'd half expected Megan to be waiting for him, but she wasn't. He walked over to the bed and his heart nearly stopped as Reese opened his eyes. He looked infinitely better than the last time Finch had visited -- the intubation tube was gone, as was the drain in his skull, and he was breathing on his own, his gray-blue eyes glassy, but open and tracking Finch as he approached.

"Thank god," Finch said, his voice cracking. "I was so worried. I thought--" He forced himself to stop, to take a breath, to start again. "Do you remember what happen, how you were injured? John, do you remember who did this to you? Did she say anything?"

"I don't think he understands what you're asking," Megan said softly and Finch glanced back at her, standing in front of the door. He hadn't heard her come in. She walked over, her hands in her pockets, wearing her 'doctor's' face, the one all physicians put on when they have to deliver bad news. "The neurologist told me that it's not uncommon for brain trauma to result in temporary and sometimes permanent memory loss."

"So he doesn't remember what happened, is that what you're saying?" Finch asked.

"It's more than that," Megan said, glancing at Reese. "I don't think he remembers me, and it doesn't look like he remembers you."

"Of course he does," Finch snapped, suddenly unable to breathe, like he'd been kicked in the chest. He turned to Reese. "John, look at me. You know who I am, right? John, who am I?" Reese didn't respond, he just shifted his gaze to Megan, then back to Finch, as though waiting, but only mildly interested. Finch shook his head, fighting back the scream that rose up in his throat. _No. No, no, no!_ This couldn't be happening.

"He'll get better, though, right?" Finch asked, his voice tight and hoarse. "You said temporary memory loss, right?"

"Possibly," Megan replied. "There's no way to know. We just have to wait and see." Wait and see. _Wait and see._ Finch threw himself across the room, into the small adjoining bathroom, and vomited into the toilet.


	16. Chapter 16

The man with the glasses and tie was upset. That weight returned to his chest as the man left and he waited for the woman in white to say _Okay_ again, but she left, too. Alone, he glanced around the room, his gaze falling on that strip of gold on the wall. It had moved and turned orange, but he still didn't know where it came from. He looked away. He didn't like that light; it made him feel empty, like something inside him was missing. With a sigh, he closed his eyes.

He woke up to find more people in his room. The woman in white was there, standing near his feet, her arms crossed over her chest. Beside him stood a woman with dark skin and dark hair. For a moment, he thought it was the woman in blue, but she didn't smell like clean, she smelled like bitter and sweet, like something with color. Behind her was a man, but not the man with the glasses and tie. This man wouldn't look at him.

He looked back at the woman in white. He knew her, she was _okay_ , but all these other people, they made him feel empty, like the light. He didn't like them.

"John, the police want to ask you a few question," the woman in white said, using that word again. _John_. She said it a lot when she spoke to him. The man with the glasses and tie said it, too.

"John?" the dark woman asked, raising an eyebrow.

"John Doe," the woman in white said. "We don't know what else to call him."

"He won't tell you?"

"He hasn't spoken since he woke up," the woman in white said. "He hasn't even tried. He also hasn't moved his right arm or leg, and he doesn't respond to commands. It would appear he sustained significant brain damage."

"Or he's faking it," said the dark woman.

The woman in white uncrossed her arms, her eyebrows drawing together. "He was shot in the head. Explain to me how he faked that."

"You don't know this man, Doctor," said the dark woman. "I've been after him for months. He's capable of anything."

"What has he done?"

"I can't comment on an open investigation," said the dark woman, "but he's been present at the scene of more than two dozen crimes, including several homicides."

"He was present? So simply being there makes him a criminal now?" the woman in white asked.

"He's a person of interest," said the dark woman, "and I have the authority to detain him until such time that I am convinced that he does not pose a threat. And I'm not convinced."

Something shiny caught his eye and he watched as the dark woman held out a pair of silver metal circles attached together by a short chain. She put one circle around the rail on the side of the bed. It made a clicking sound. Then she placed the other side around his wrist. It was cold and heavy. He didn't like it.

He tried to pull away, but it was on the arm that he couldn't make move. He reached over with his other hand and tried to take it off, but it was stuck. He pulled on it, the movement sending a sharp pain through his chest and he gasped. He didn't like that, either. He looked up at the dark woman. Why had she put this cold, heavy thing on him? She just stared back at him, her face hard.

"Is that really necessary?" the woman in white asked, moving to the side of the bed and stepping in front of the dark woman. "It's scaring him." She placed her hand on his. "John, it's okay," she said. "Leave it there, that's right. It's okay." He let her lift his hand away, but only because she said it was _okay_. She started to set his hand back down beside him, but he didn't want her to go away again. He wasn't sure it would still be _okay_ without her. He grabbed her hand, holding it tight.

"This is police brutality," the woman in white said, looking back at the other two. "He's got the mental capacity of a three year old, and you're chaining him up like a vicious animal!"

"I'm also stationing an officer in the corridor," the dark woman said as she headed for the door. "Be sure to call if he decides to start talking."

"I'm calling your precinct and filing a complaint, that's what I'm going to do!" the woman in white said, her voice loud as the two people left. She was angry and upset, her face wet again. He didn't want her to be sad.

He squeezed her hand. "O...kay," he said, surprised by the sound and the feeling in his throat. He said it again, "Okay."

The woman in white looked at him for a long time, then reached up and touched his face. "You'd tell me if this was just a trick to fool the cops, wouldn't you? John, please...tell me it is..." Her face was still wet. He hadn't made her feel better, and he didn't know what else to say, so he said nothing.


	17. Chapter 17

Leaning on his cane, Finch hobbled down the hospital corridor, sweating underneath his cardigan. Taking a deep breath, he approached the officer seated in a chair outside Reese's room. The cop looked up from his magazine, gaze sweeping Finch from head to toe and seeing nothing more than a harmless man with a limp. Finch knew the psychological effect the cane had on other people's perception of him, which was why he never used one unless he was playing a part and wanted to be underestimated.

"Excuse me, officer," he said softly. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine."

"Then, it's okay if I go in?" He gestured toward the door.

"Do you know the patient?" the officer asked, rising from his chair.

Finch shook his head. "Not really. I sat with him for a while last week. A group of us over at St. Alice's like to stop by now and then and visit those people who don't have family nearby. " He smiled. "It's a good reason to get me out of the house since my wife passed."

"That's very kind of you," the officer said. "Go on in, but I'm going to have to ask you a few questions afterward about what he says to you, all right?"

"Oh, he's awake?" Finch asked, feigning surprise. "What a miracle. We've been keeping him in our prayers, you know." The officer smiled and sat back down, returning to his magazine, probably to dissuade any further religious conversation. Finch opened the door, stepped into the room, and closed it again before picking his cane up and carrying it across the room.

Reese was sitting up, the bed inclined so he could watch TV. Finch felt a surge of anger at the sight of the handcuffs chaining him to the bed, but they didn't seem to be bothering him much. His right arm lay still beside him. Megan said he still hadn't regained the use of it, or his right leg, but that he'd start physical therapy in a couple of days. The bruises on his face had mostly faded and the wound on his head was slowly healing, and as Finch approached, Reese glanced over at him.

"Hello," Reese said, but there was no recognition in those blue eyes.

Finch swallowed hard. "Hello, John. I'm Harold."

"Hello, Harold," Reese said. Silence fell, heavy and painful as Finch struggled to find something to say.

"Do you mind if I sit with you for a while?" he asked finally. Reese didn't respond, except to turn back to the television. Finch sank into the chair beside the bed, taking slow, even breaths as he fought the tightness in his chest. This was something he had to do. "What are you watching?" he asked, glancing up at the TV mounted on the wall near the ceiling. An old Loony Toons cartoon was on.

An anvil, a staple of vintage cartoon comedy, fell out of a tree and landed on Elmer Fudd's foot. Reese laughed, the easy and uninhibited laugh of a child, the sound making Finch's heart ache. He would have given anything to hear the familiar quiet chuckle again. Shaking his head, he sighed. That wasn't going to happen, and this...this really was the next best thing.

On the TV, a large boulder came rolling down the hill, flattening the unlucky Mr. Fudd, and Reese laughed aloud again, but it was cut short when he winced and pressed his left hand to his chest.

He looked over at Finch. "Hurts," he said, a small frown creasing his brow.

"I know," Finch said, reaching over and placing a hand on Reese's unresponsive arm. "You're getting better, though. It won't hurt for much longer."

"Okay," Reese said and he looked back up at the TV. The indestructible Mr. Fudd was now running through the trees, in hot pursuit of Bugs Bunny. He fired his shotgun over and over and Finch snorted under his breath, both at his terrible aim and the fact that he never had to stop and reload.

Suddenly, Reese grabbed the remote and turned the television off. Finch looked over at him, his shoulders hunched and his chin tucked against his chest, frowning as he blinked rapidly.

"John, is something the matter?" Finch asked, rising from the chair and stepping closer.

"Don't like," Reese said, his voice low. "Bad. Bad sound."

Finch glanced at the dark TV. "The gunshots? Is that it? Do you remember being shot? John-- Reese, do you remember me?"

Reese looked over at him, blue eyes shadowed by lowered brows, the face so familiar, but the expression completely alien. It was looking at a stranger wearing Reese's face. "Harold..." Reese said softly, extending his left hand and pressing his fingertips at the base of Finch's throat. "Tie."

"That's right," Finch said, forcing a fleeting smile. "I usually wear a tie." He sighed. "C'mon, let's find something else on the TV." He picked up the remote out of Reese's lap and began flipping through the channels. He was still at it when the door opened and Megan came in.

"Hello, Harold," she said. "Hi, John."

"Hi, Megan," Reese said with a broad smile. "Watch?" His eyes darted to the TV.

"Not right now," she said. "I need to talk to Harold for a few minutes, okay?"

"Okay," Reese said.

Finch gave him back the remote and joined Megan over near the bathroom doorway.

"What did you want to see me about?" she asked.

Finch took a bracing breath. "Will he ever make a full recovery?" He hadn't been able to ask the question over the phone. He needed to see her face; he didn't want to be lied to.

"He's made remarkable progress," she said evasively. "He wasn't expected to regain consciousness and now he's speaking. It's only been three weeks. It's impossible to say what will happen in a year or two..." She trailed off, then sighed. "I know, that's not what you asked." She glanced at Reese. "I believe that in time he will be able to live a full and relatively normal life. Will he ever be the man we knew? I don't know. Brain injuries are tricky. We've done several CAT scans and there appears to be only minimal damage, but it's right in the area that processes memory. His brain could heal, or find a way to reroute the signals, and he could wake up tomorrow and be just like he was before, or he could be like this for the rest of his life. But I think you know which is the more likely of the two."

"Yes," Finch said, squaring his shoulders, "I do." He reached behind him and pulled a thick envelope out of his back pocket. "This is for him," he said, handing it to her. "It's everything he'll need -- birth certificate, identification, social security number, bank accounts; I've set up a trust and arranged to pay all his medical bills--"

"Harold...Harold," she said, speaking over him. "There's no need to do this now. We can wait and see--"

"No," he said. "I can't. I can't see him like this. He...he's of no use to me and I have to get back to work."

"You don't mean that," she said.

He didn't respond. Returning to Reese's bedside, he lay his hand upon Reese's still right arm. "I'm going to go now, John," he said, "but I want you to do something for me. Have a long and happy life, something neither of us ever expected, but you more than deserve. I..." He swallowed hard, his voice barely louder than a whisper when he spoke. "I love you."

Reese smiled at him and then went back to flipping through the channels on the TV.

Finch turned and walked away, holding his cane in front of him until he reached the door. "Good-bye, Dr. Tillman," he said, not looking at her as he gripped his cane and hobbled out to answer the officer's questions.


	18. Chapter 18

He turned off the TV and set the remote down. He wanted to sleep, but his whole body hurt after what George had made him do. He liked George, and he liked leaving his room, but the things George wanted him to do were hard, like pushing the heavy ball around, or grabbing the tall bar and pulling himself up out of the wheelchair. Some things, like moving his bad leg and arm, he couldn't do at all, and that made him angry.

With a sigh, he stared up at the ceiling, watching the sunlight fade in and out as clouds drifted across the sky. He heard the door open and raised his head, hoping Harold had come back to see him, but it was the dark woman who had put the handcuffs on him. He didn't like her, but he didn't want to be mean.

"Hello," he said, reaching over to rub at the sore spot in his wrist when the metal hurt his skin.

"Hello, John," she said, walking over to his bed, frowning as she looked down at him. "Well, it seems your guardian angel came through again. The DA is refusing to prosecute and I've been ordered to stop 'harassing' you, so..." She pulled out a small ring with pieces of metal strung on it...A word floated up through the darkness inside his mind. _Keys._ They were keys. She used one of them, a small silver one, to unlock the handcuffs and take them off. He rubbed his hand up and down over his wrist, then pulled his bad arm over into his lap, away from her, just in case.

"Thank you," he said. He waited for her to go, but she just stood there. After a minute, he looked up at her again. She wasn't frowning anymore. Instead, she looked a little...sad.

"I don't think I ever thanked you properly for saving my life," she said. "So thanks. And..." She sighed. "God, I hope you've got everybody fooled, I really do."

He watched her leave, then rubbed his wrist again as he closed his eyes. A moment later, he heard the door open again, and he wrapped his fingers around his wrist, but it wasn't the dark woman. It was Megan.

"What did she want?" she asked, coming over to his bed.

He smiled and patted his wrist. "All gone," he said.

"It's about time," Megan said, taking his arm and lifting it so she could look at his wrist. "Does that hurt?" She touched the sore spot, her fingers cool.

"Yes," he said. She set his arm down and walked to the cupboards where the gloves and tongue sticks and band-aids were kept. As she came back with a band-aid, he asked, "Harold?"

"Sorry, John," she said, putting the band-aid on his wrist. "I don't think he's coming today, either."

He sighed and looked over, out the window at the tall buildings.

"Do you miss him?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "Like Harold."

"Me, too," she said, sitting down in the chair beside him. "You knew him, you know. Before you were hurt, he was your friend. Do you remember? Do you remember Harold?"

He frowned, trying to remember. He wanted to remember Harold. Inside his mind, inside the darkness, he could feel something. It was not like the words that came out sometimes, like _keys_ and _coffee_ , it was big, very big, and it made him feel scared. It was bad. It would hurt him, so he pushed it away.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No."

"It's okay," Megan said, taking his hand. "I know, why don't I call Harold and see if he can come for a visit? Would you like that?"

"Yes," he said. He watched her poke at her phone and then hold it up to her ear. She frowned and brought it down again, then put it back in her pocket.

"Bad news," she said. "His number has been disconnected. It doesn't work anymore. I can't call him."

"Oh," he said. He sighed and looked back out the window.

Megan patted his hand again and headed for the door. "Selfish bastard," he heard her say as she left, but he didn't know those words, and he didn't think she was speaking to him.


	19. Chapter 19

Taking a deep breath as the elevator slowed, Finch adjusted his tie and braced himself for the fallout. The doors slid open and he stepped into the busy office space, making his way determinedly through the maze of cubicles as he tried to avoid eye contact, to avoid being noticed. No such luck.

"Harold?"

He winced. Of course, it had to be Cindy, because God forbid she actually get some _work_ done while there was gossip to be shared and goings-on that needed to be observed. He stopped and turned, pasting on a semi-friendly smile as she hurried over.

"Hello," he said. "How have you been?"

"Me?" she asked. "What about you? We heard you'd been fired."

"Oh...no..." he said with a humorless chuckle. "Transferred, but it didn't work out, so...here I am."

"Well, I'm glad you're back," Cindy said, and for an instant, he almost believed her. "Did your friend ever get in touch with you? That tall guy - the good-looking one with the blue eyes? He was in here looking for you the day you left."

"Oh, right," Finch said, trying to ignore the pain in his chest. "Him. Yes, he found me." He tried to step past her, but she turned and began walking with him, taking small steps to match his pace. He hated that.

"I don't think I ever got his name," Cindy said, trying to sound casual and failing.

Finch swallowed hard. "His name was John."

" _Was_?" she repeated, arching her professionally tweezed eyebrow. The company was paying her too much. "Harold, you don't mean..."

"Yes," he said, "he's dead. He was killed in an accident five weeks ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Were the two of you close?"

"No." He averted his gaze, glancing around the office. "We were just associates. Excuse me, I should get to work before Dave sees me--"

"Oh, that's right, you weren't here," Cindy said, trying to keep a straight face, but he could see the amusement in her eyes. "Dave got fired a couple of weeks ago. Apparently, he's been embezzling money from the company for several years."

"You don't say," Finch said, his surprise genuine as he raised his eyebrows. Well, he had been terribly distracted, but that was no excuse to let something like that slide. The company would prosecute, of course, but that took too long. Before the afternoon was over, Finch could drain all Dave's bank accounts, close his 401K, send his credit rating into the double digits, cancel his credit cards, and he might just ask Reese to pay him a--

"I really need to get to work," he said, stepping into the empty cubicle. It wasn't the same one he'd left, and he quickly decided he didn't like it very much. It was too close to the lounge and faced away from the elevator. He didn't like his chair either; the lumbar support was worn out and it made a faint squealing sound when he moved. With a sigh, he sank into the oblivion of mind-numbing office drudgery.


	20. Chapter 20

He glanced up from his lunch as the door opened, but it wasn't Megan. That was good, since he'd eaten his pudding already even though he wasn't done with his peas yet. He didn't like peas, but Megan said he needed to eat his vegetables, so he ate them anyway, even if he sometimes ate the pudding first. The woman who came into the room was new, her hair short and dark, but not black or brown. It was a new color, kind of like orange or red, but not quite.

"Hello," he said with a smile. "I'm John." Megan said it was nice to tell new people his name. It was friendly. He liked being friendly. He didn't like his name very much, though. John Phoenix. John was good, it felt right, but Phoenix was like peas -- he didn't know why he didn't like it, but he didn't want to say it. It was wrong.

He waited for the woman to tell him her name. Most of the people that he saw did, but she didn't. She walked to the foot of his bed and reached into her black bag, pulling out a black thing that she pointed at him. He looked carefully at it, feeling that dark cloud in the back of his mind push up a word. _Gun._

He shrank back, pressing himself against his bed and turning his head away. "No," he said in a small voice. "Don't like. Bad noise." He waited for the noise, his body shaking, his heart pounding, and in his mind, whatever was hiding in the darkness tried to get out. He tried to stop it, to make it go away, but he saw things in his head, he felt them in his heart, bad things, scary things, guns and blood and pain and sad -- He looked back at the woman as tears ran down his cheeks.

She slowly lowered the gun, frowning at him. Then she raised it again. "I'm sorry," she said.

The door opened. "Hey, John, did you eat your--" Megan stopped, her face turning white as she saw the woman and the gun.

"Step away from the door," the woman said, pointing the gun at Megan.

"No!" he shouted, the memory of a gunshot echoing in his ears, the memory of pain exploding in his chest and his head as the darkness within his mind shattered. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, a feeling like rushing water roaring in his mind, then he gasped, a second of dizziness fading.

Reese grabbed the crystal vase full of flowers off the table beside his bed and hurtled it at the woman, aiming for her left leg. The vase thudded against her thigh and she screamed, staggering. Dr. Tillman rushed at her, grabbing the pistol in both hands and forcing it down to point at the floor. Reese threw back the blankets and scrambled out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold tiles, and his knees nearly buckled beneath him. He caught himself on the bed, another wave of dizziness washing over him, but he shook it off and staggered forward.

The woman punched Dr. Tillman in the face and jerked free as she stumbled backward. Reese lunged and grabbed her arm as the woman whipped around, raising the gun. He slammed her wrist down on the metal rail at the foot of the bed, her fingers jumping reflexively and sending the pistol clattering to the floor. He kicked it away and spun her around, twisting her arm up behind her back. Glancing around, he quickly grabbed the unused IV line hanging from the IV pole and used it tie the woman's hands behind her back before forcing her to lie face down on the floor.

As he straightened up, Reese felt another moment of vertigo and he blinked hard, trying to make the disorientation go away. He felt like someone had taken the contents of his life, all neatly sorted and filed away in his memory, and then tossed them into a big, jumbled pile and tried to stuff it all back into his skull. There were random bits and pieces and great empty gaps, but he didn't have time to worry about that.

The door flew open and an orderly stuck his head in. "What's going on?" he asked, his eyes widening at the sight of the woman bound on the floor.

"Call the police," Reese said. "This woman tried to kill us."

The orderly nodded and ran out. Reese stumbled over to Dr. Tillman, leaning back against the wall with blood running down her chin from a split lip. "Are you okay?" he asked, reaching up to check for a broken or dislocated jaw.

She winced. "Yeah, I'm okay," she said. "Are you? I mean, are you...you?"

"Mostly," he said. "It's still a bit...muddled. I think I've been trying to come back for a while, but...there's a lot of memories from my past that I'd rather not remember." An image of Jessica flashed in his mind, from the last time he'd seen her, walking away in that airport, and he closed his eyes, drawing a slow breath. "I have to get out of here," he said, turning away.

"John," she said, reaching out and catching him by the arm, "I don't know if that's such a good idea. We should run some tests--"

"The cops are on their way," he said, gently lifting her hand and wrapping his fingers around hers. "Thank you so much for everything, but I need to get back to my partner."

"You mean Harold, right?"

He paused, the name stirring recent memories to the surface, empty, hollow, lonely memories. "He stopped coming to see me," he whispered. He shook his head, ignoring the ache in his chest. Of course he had. Reese couldn't really expect Finch to sit by his side and hold his hand while they watched cartoons, could he? Finch had an important job to do, and it was only logical that he find someone else to continue that work. But all the logic in the world couldn't stop it from hurting.

He pushed it aside and shuffled over to the cupboard in the corner, his right leg -- so long unused -- stiff and slow to respond. He pulled out his duffel bag of clothes from the hotel and slipped into a pair of slacks and a dark blue button-down shirt. As he dug through the bag looking for socks, he discovered an envelope that he didn't remember putting in there.

"What is this?" he asked, holding it up for Dr. Tillman to see.

"Harold left that for you," she said. It wasn't sealed, so he opened it and began shuffling through the contents. It was identification, account numbers, and credit cards, all for a John Phoenix. It was everything he'd need to start a new life.

 _I want you to do something for me. Have a long and happy life, something neither of us ever expected, but you more than deserve._ Reese closed his eyes, Finch's voice filling his head, almost as though he were standing at Reese's shoulder. Finch hadn't abandoned him, hadn't cast aside a broken weapon, he'd set him free.

Reese shoved it into his back pocket and finished getting dressed. Then he crouched beside the woman and grabbed her chin, tilting her head so he could look into her face.

"The cops are on their way," he said. "Whether they take you to the jail or the morgue is up to you. Why did you try to kill me?"

She glared up at him, jaw set stubbornly, until he reached over and picked up her gun, pressing the barrel against her temple. "You killed my partner," she snarled.

Reese regarded her for a moment, running through the short list of recent deaths at his hands, but it was so obvious, he couldn't believe he hadn't seen it earlier. "Mr. Allen," he said. She was the prostitute, though she'd obviously had a haircut since, or else worn a wig that night. A chilling through suddenly occurred to him. "And what about _my_ partner? Did you pay him a visit before you came to see me?"

"I tried," she said, "but he's not as easy to follow as you were."

That was a relief, and all he needed to know. He checked the rubber tubing around the woman's wrists before dumping the contents of her handbag onto his bed. He rifled through the typical items -- lipstick, pens, aspirin, tic-tacs, keys, and wallet -- and the not so common -- an extra clip, a lock-pick set, latex gloves, and a switchblade. He tucked the keys, wallet, and switchblade into his pockets, then turned to Dr. Tillman, who was watching him with dark, worried eyes.

"I'll be okay," he said, leaning down and placing a light kiss on her cheek. "Take care."

"You, too, John," she said.

Reese opened the door and poked his head out, glancing up and down the corridor before stepping out and heading for the elevators, a slight limp in his gait. At least he'd gotten the use of his limbs back. Was there such a thing as psychological paralysis? Finch would probably know, or he could find out.

He reached the double bank of elevators and pushed the down button, casually glancing back up the corridor as he waited. At the far end, spilling out of the opposite bank of elevators, came a pair of uniformed cops, followed by Detectives Carter and Fusco. What were they doing there; this wasn't a homicide. Reese turned away, reaching out to hit the elevator button again, though it didn't help the doors open any sooner.

He could tell when they'd reached his hospital room from the commotion behind him, and he chanced another backward glance, just as Carter came charging out of the room. Their eyes met. _Shit._

"Police; don't move," she shouted, drawing her pistol. Reese drew a short, sharp breath, his chest constricting as he remembered the fear he had felt as that other, simpler version of himself, and he shoved it aside, resentment taking its place. He couldn't do his job if he was scared of guns. He considered making a run for it, trying his luck in the stairwell, but he didn't think his leg could take the abuse of three flights of stairs. Even in his weakened condition, he knew he could disarm her, but he doubted she'd make the mistake of getting that close to him. Slowly, he started to raise his hands over his head. "Get down on the ground, now!" Carter instructed.

With a soft chime, the elevator doors trundled open and a man stepped out, directly between Reese and Carter. Reese dove into the elevator and hit the button to close the doors. Still in the car were an elderly man and a young woman holding a small child. They looked at him, startled. He smiled.

"Hold that elevator!" he heard Carter shout as the doors slid closed. The man who had just exited reached out and stopped the doors from closing. Reese looked out at him through the gap and drew the switchblade out of his pocket, the sharp silver blade appearing with an audible _snick_. The man paled and jerked back, letting the doors close. Reese put the weapon away and hit the button for the underground parking garage.

 _Whack!_ Something smacked against his shoulder. Reese spun around, jerking the wooden cane out of the man's hand on reflex alone. The old man staggered, catching himself on the wall. In the corner, the young woman drew a noisy, frightened breath and clutched at her child.

"Take it easy," Reese said softly, handing the cane back to the man. "I'm not going to hurt anyone." He stood with his back in the opposite corner, holding his hands out in front of him and trying to appear harmless as the man stood protectively in front of the woman and child. Finally, the elevator shuddered to a stop and the doors opened. "Sorry if I frightened you," he said as he stepped out into the cool, quiet underground cavern of the parking garage.

Working quickly, he made his way down a row of cars, picking out the easiest to hotwire and smashing out the driver's side window. In thirty seconds, he was rolling toward the exit. At the booth, he handed over the parking pass and paid the fee with cash from his would-be killer's wallet. Police sirens wailed up and down half of the streets of Manhattan, but he found a pair of sunglasses in the center console and casually blended into traffic.

An hour later, he dumped the car and walked the remaining ten blocks to the library. His leg was aching, his muscles jumping and twitching beneath his skin by the time he got there. Was this what Finch felt? He had to lean heavily on the railing as he made his way up the stairs, something Finch would never do. His heart was pounding as he traversed the long, book-lined halls and approached their headquarters. Did Finch even need him anymore?

He sensed that something was wrong before he reached the central room. It was too quiet, too cold. He stepped into the room and stopped, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. All of Finch's electronics were turned off and draped with protective plastic sheeting. Slowly, he circled the large table, trailing his hand along the back of Finch's chair. It was possible Finch was in the process of regrouping, of finding a replacement. Or perhaps he'd realized the woman was Mr. Allen's partner, maybe he'd caught sight of her following him, maybe he'd moved to a safer location. Then Reese saw the board.

Finch's board of numbers, pictures and string marking lost lives, lost chances... Photos and newspaper clippings littered the floor, strings hanging limp, pushpins scattered. It looked like he'd torn it down with his bare hands.

For a long, long time, Reese just stood and stared. This was Finch's passion, his obsession, his life. Why rip it down? Frustration at having to move, to start from scratch? That seemed unlikely. Finch was a practical man. Starting over would be...inconvenient, but this scene bore the mark of despair. What if this wasn't about the numbers?

 _Have a long and happy life, something neither of us ever expected, but you more than deserve._ Finch's words echoed in his mind, and there was something else, a look, a touch, a whisper. _I love you._ Reese pulled out Finch's desk chair and sank down into the cold upholstery, his chest tight. This was his fault. Finch hadn't given up because he'd lost his weapon, his employee, or his partner. If Reese hadn't pushed, if he hadn't broken down Finch's walls, if he hadn't violated that professional distance between them...

He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands, but he straightened up as his fingers brushed against the short, stiff stubble covering his scalp. What the hell happened to his hair? Rising, he hurried to the bathroom and turned on the light, eyes widening in shock as he stared at himself in the mirror. The left side of his head was a patchwork of thin pink scars showing through a quarter inch of hair that looked more silver than salt and pepper.

He leaned heavily on the sink, staring. He'd been shot in the head. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he suspected he knew that, but the concrete thought still knocked the wind out of him. He had been shot _in the head_. He should have been dead, or a vegetable, or have the mental acuity of a chia pet. The odds of him ever recovering must have been...He couldn't even imagine, but he bet Finch knew. Finch would have calculated it _exactly_ \-- more numbers to haunt him.

Reese jerked open the bathroom door and stormed out into the main room, pulling the plastic off the computers and letting it crumple to the floor. He had beaten the odds -- he'd shot the kneecaps off the fucking odds -- and he'd be damned if he wasted it. He had to find Finch.

He found his cell back in the corner on Finch's desk, but the battery had drained. He dug around on the desk and in the drawers, but couldn't find a charger. The landline in the library was disconnected, but there was a payphone on the corner a few blocks away. He grabbed a handful of change off Finch's desk and headed out.

The payphone was just a dead-end, though; Finch had disconnected his number. Reese seemed to remember Dr. Tillman telling him something to that effect. He paced before the phone booth, his steps frustratingly unsteady, and tried to formulate a plan. He wasn't sure if it was because of the lingering head injury, or because he'd grown used to having Finch in his ear, feeding him information, but for several long, increasingly distressing minutes, he didn't even know where to begin looking.

Finally, the flotsam in his head settled a bit and he remembered the diner. He hadn't expected to find Finch there, but it was still disappointing to see someone else sitting in Finch's booth by the window. The lunch rush was just ebbing, the waitresses looking weary as he approached them.

"Excuse me," he said, for a moment confused by the looks they gave him, somewhere between alarmed and repulsed, but then he remembered the scars. He was going to have to start wearing a hat, at least until his hair grew out. Scars drew too much attention and were too memorable. "I'm looking for a friend. He eats here often, usually sits over there--" He pointed to the booth. "He's had the Eggs Benedict many times."

"The fella with the glasses," one of the women said with a smile. "Yeah, he hasn't been in here in weeks. If you see him, tell him we miss him."

Reese masked his frustration as he thanked them and went back outside, walking with no destination in mind, his head bowed as he avoided the stares of his fellow pedestrians. The diner had been his best hope. The only other place he knew Finch to frequent was his old job, but he'd quit that months ago. Finch didn't strike him as the type to keep in touch with his former co-workers, but as he had no other leads, he turned his weary steps uptown.

The security was just as lax as the last time he visited and he made his way up to the second floor unchallenged. Stepping off the elevator, he glanced toward Finch's cubicle. A heavyset Hispanic woman sat there now. This was pointless. He turned to go.

"Oh. My. God."

Surprised, Reese stopped, raising his eyebrows as a blonde woman rushed over, her eyes wide. He stiffened as she grabbed his arm, looking him up and down like he was an old high school sweetheart she hadn't seen in twenty years.

"Oh, my God," she said again. "John, right?"

"Uh, yes," he said, frowning. "I'm sorry, do I know you?" He had been shot in the head, but he didn't think his memory had been damaged _that_ bad.

"No; sorry, you don't," she said with a laugh. "Well, we spoke briefly a few months ago, but we were never introduced. I'm Cindy. I'm a friend of Harold's. Well, I mean, I work with him. He said you were dead."

"He did?" Reese said, a thrill of hope fluttering in his chest. That meant she had seen Finch since the shooting. His gaze swept the room before returning to her. She was still staring at him like she was seeing a ghost. "Yes, well...He thought I was dead. There was a mix-up at the hospital; I was in a coma."

"Oh, my God," she said, covering her mouth with one hand. "Does Harold know you're alive?"

"No," Reese said, "which is why I'd _really_ like to find him. Is he here?"

She nodded and turned, pointing out over the maze of chest-high walls. "He's over there, near that pathetic-looking ficus." He headed for the scrubby potted shrub she had indicated, vaguely aware of her presence behind him as he wound his way between the cubicles. The quiet hum of hushed conversation took on a subtly electric tone as he neared Finch and he glanced to either side, surprised to see a large number of the employees on their feet or peering over the cubicle walls, watching him.

He was out of breath and shaking by the time he reached Finch, and it wasn't just from the exertion placed on his neglected muscles. He stared down at the quiet man, as neat and stiff and reserved as ever, and just the sight of him was like stepping into the sun. Finch glanced over at him, his expression cold and closed-off, his walls rebuilt and reinforced.

"Hi, Finch," Reese whispered.

Finch's eyes flew open wide, his sharp intake of breath audible in the suddenly silent office. His hand shook as he grabbed the edge of the desk and levered himself out of the chair, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, but no sound coming out as he stared up at Reese. He reached out, like he needed to be sure Reese wasn't a mirage or a figment of his imagination, and Reese brushed his fingers against the back of Finch's hand.

"John," Finch finally managed to croak, and before Reese realized what he was doing, he had closed the distance between them, one hand cupping the back of Finch's neck as he leaned down and captured Finch's lips in a deep and breathless kiss. Stiff and unyielding as always, Finch grabbed his shoulders, his hands balling into fists and gripping Reese's jacket as he trembled like a leaf. Then, with a shuddering gasp, Finch kissed him back, drawing him close and holding him tight.

"Way to go, Harold," Cindy said, somewhere behind Reese, and Finch jerked back, a look of thinly disguised horror on his face as his gaze darted around the room, at the dozens of people staring at them.

"Oh, fuck, Reese," he whispered, his face turning scarlet. Then someone on the other side of the room whistled and a smattering of applause and nervous laughter filled the silence.

Reese flashed a crooked grin and leaned close to Finch. "Maybe we could take this somewhere more private?"

"I- I'm in the- in the middle of work, Mr. Reese," Finch stammered.

"Seriously?" Reese asked, cocking his head to one side and arching an eyebrow.

Finch turned, his gaze sweeping his empty cubicle, the computer monitor filled with lines of dry code and tables of boring data. "I suppose you do have a point," he said with what Reese had come to describe simply as Finch-ness, the deadpan stare, the drawing out of certain syllables, that hint of humor so subtle one might almost think they'd imagined it. "My car is in the parking garage."

Without a word to anyone, Finch headed for the elevator, the spectators stepping aside to let him pass. Reese followed at his hip, barely resisting the urge to reach out, to keep some kind of physical contact with him, but unable to keep his gaze from roving over Finch, _his_ Finch. It took forever for the elevator to arrive and they stood side by side in silence, listening to the gossip spread like wildfire behind them.

"I had _no_ idea he swung that way!" "Why are the gorgeous ones always gay?" "I mean, what straight man wears a pocket square?" "Do you suppose it's too late to change him?"

Reese glanced over at Finch, who was staring intently at the wall, his face still red, but his lips twitching as he fought against a smile and slowly lost. When the doors finally opened, they stepped inside and Finch looked over at him. Their eyes met and Reese couldn't stop the chuckle that slipped past his lips. That was all it took to shatter the last of Finch's resolve. He laughed, a rich, warm sound that touched something inside Reese that he thought had died long ago.

The elevator began its descent and Reese took a step toward Finch, but Finch held up his hand, stopping him. "There's a security camera in the corner behind you," he said. Reese considered fixing that, but this was Finch's company, and it was only a short ride down to the parking garage.

As they stepped out into the cool, quiet underground structure, Finch glanced over him. "You're limping," he said.

"I didn't use my leg for five weeks," Reese said. "It's a little weak."

"So it's not permanent, then?"

"I don't think so."

"And you are otherwise unaffected by your injuries?" Finch asked, a slight edge creeping into his tone.

Reese frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I mean, have you miraculously and against all odds made a full recovery from what should have been a permanently debilitating head injury?" No doubt about it, he was angry, but it only took a moment for Reese to figure out why.

"I don't know," he said. "I left before Dr. Tillman could run any more tests. And to answer your real question, no, I wasn't faking it."

Finch glanced over at him, the hard suspicion in his eyes fading. "Sorry, Reese. I just..."

Reese smiled softly; he understood.

"So did you just wake up this morning with your memory intact," Finch asked, "or was there some sort of trigger?"

"You could say that," Reese said. "That woman -- Mr. Allen's partner -- came back to finish the job."

Finch stopped walking and turned to face him, looking him over from head to toe, as if there was a possibility he might not have noticed if Reese was riddled with bullet holes. "Is she dead?" he asked finally.

"No, she's in police custody," Reese replied. "I didn't figure she could tell them anything they didn't already know."

Finch nodded, a small frown creasing his brow again. "So seeing her again brought back your memories. That makes sense, I suppose. She _was_ the last person you saw before--"

"It wasn't like that," Reese said as Finch stopped beside an elegant black sedan. It wasn't hard to follow Finch's train of thought. Reese held out his hand. "I'll drive."

Finch pulled his keys out of his pocket and hesitated before pressing the keyless remote and unlocking the doors. "You don't know where we're going, Mr. Reese."

"I assumed the library," Reese said, "or...a hotel?"

"You assumed wrong," Finch replied, climbing into the driver's seat. Reese grinned to himself and walked to the passenger's side. He usually didn't like surprises, but for Finch he could make an exception. "So, what _was_ it like?" Finch asked as they emerged from underground onto the busy afternoon street.

Reese leaned back in the leather seat, letting his gaze wander out the window. "First of all, you need to know that there was something...familiar...about you, something deep in the back of my mind, but when I tried to remember, there was this...darkness back there, too. It frightened me and I pushed it away. When I saw her, there was no recognition. When she pointed her gun at me, I was terrified, and I could feel that darkness getting closer, but I still fought against it. I didn't want to remember." He paused, taking a slow breath to compose himself. This was harder to talk about than he'd thought it would be.

"Then Megan came into the room," he continued, "and the shooter turned the gun on her. Something in me snapped and I couldn't fight who I was anymore. I acted without thinking, I just...knew where to throw the vase, I knew how to disarm her, how to restrain her. The actual memories came back slower. Some things I'm still struggling with, like someone has been reorganizing my brain and I don't know where anything is."

"That makes perfect sense, you know," Finch said after a moment. "I knew, I told you, all you ever wanted to do was protect people. It's part of your very nature, ingrained so deeply in who you are that you can't escape it." He hesitated. "Do you remember...us?"

Reese closed his eyes, trying to coax, to will, to force the memories to come to him, but it was like staring at a blank canvas. "No," he finally admitted. "I'm sorry."

Finch looked over at him, having to twist his body in his seat, a look of bewilderment on his face before he turned back to watch the road. "You don't- But then...why did you kiss me?"

"It was...like knowing to throw that vase at her left thigh. I don't know why, but it just felt right. I just had to kiss you. I may not remember what happened, but I know how I feel. I love you."

Finch was silent for several blocks. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. "You managed to wound her in the shoot-out; you hit her in the left thigh."

"Ah," Reese said, looking back out the window. Not what he'd wanted to hear Finch say.

"What's the last thing you do remember from before the shooting?" Finch asked.

Reese supposed he couldn't blame him, it was easier to deal with facts and data than emotions. "I remember that Mr. Allen tortured you, and I went to Dr. Tillman for some medication. I came back and we had a...a misunderstanding, and I left. I went to a hotel and I got drunk. I don't remember much of that, but then you found me. I remember you fell asleep waiting for me to wake up, and I remember wanting to kiss you then, even though I was angry at you. I think we might have had breakfast, but..." He shook his head. "I'm not sure, and everything after that is a blank, up until I woke in the hospital."

"I see," Finch said and he sighed. Reese expected that to be the extent of Finch's reply, so he was surprised when Finch said, "You're right, we ate breakfast together. Eggs Benedict. And afterward...you made love to me. And that's not just a polite euphemism, either. It wasn't just sex, but I didn't know how to deal with what I was feeling, so I left. You caught me at the elevator -- threatened to drag me back out of it, in fact -- and we talked, and you kissed me, and I promised I'd call when I figured things out. About twenty minutes later, she showed up."

"I see," Reese echoed, suddenly hollow. They had made love and he couldn't remember it. A rush of anger filled the emptiness inside him and he slammed his fist down on the dash of the car, making Finch jump.

"What?" Finch asked. "John, what--"

"I can't remember it!" Reese said through his teeth. "Do you have any idea how long..." He trailed off, unclenching his fist and running his hand over his face.

"Oh," Finch said, his voice low. "Yes, I can see how that could be frustrating, but you could look at this another way."

"And what way is that?" Reese asked.

"Not many people get to experience a second first time with someone."

"Well...there is that," Reese said after a moment. He glanced over at Finch. "Is that where we're going?"

Finch chuckled. "I knew you couldn't keep from asking. And no, I'm not taking you somewhere with that express purpose in mind. You just got out of the hospital; you need to rest."

Reese gave him a crooked smile. "That's what you think."


	21. Chapter 21

Reese appeared relaxed, perhaps even dozing in the passenger's seat, but Finch knew he was vigilant as ever, noting each street they turned down, and somewhere inside himself, Finch felt regret at losing a piece of his privacy, but it was nothing compared to his elation at having Reese back. Losing him had been the end of everything.

Finch slowed, signaled, and turned down into the underground parking garage of the apartment building. He flashed his permit to the guard, who raised the gate and allowed him through. He could feel a change in Reese, the tall man shifting in his seat, an air gathering about him like a storm brewing, his body filled with the potential energy of a panther about to spring, and Finch felt his own body respond in anticipation, his heart beating faster, his mouth suddenly dry.

He parked the car and headed for the elevator, Reese at his side, so close their arms kept touching. Normally, Finch shied away from such casual contact, but he found himself intoxicated by the palpable need that radiated from Reese, as though he required those small touches to sustain himself. He could just imagine what Reese was going to do once they were alone, and he found himself both nervous and excited.

They stepped into the elevator, Reese putting a respectable distance between them as Finch fumbled with his keys, his hand shaking as he searched for the elevator key. Finally, he managed to insert the small piece of metal into the slot and unlock the button for the thirty-fifth floor. He pressed it and the elevator doors slid quietly closed.

"Does this elevator also have security cameras?" Reese asked, his voice low.

Finch swallowed hard and reached for the panel, using his thumb and forefinger to press and hold the buttons for the thirteenth and seventeenth floors. With his other hand, he hit the ninth, twenty-sixth, and first floor buttons. "Not now," he said, stepping back.

"Clever," Reese said with a chuckle and Finch shivered, pressing himself back against the wall as Reese moved toward him. Large, strong hands found his waist, sliding around to his back as Reese pressed against him, more gentle and restrained than Finch had expected. Reese kissed him, soft and slow, almost hesitant as his lips parted and his tongue delved into Finch's mouth. After a moment, he drew back, both of them out of breath.

"Have you figured things out?" he asked.

Finch frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your feelings," Reese explained. "You said you needed to figure things out, that's why you left. Have you?"

"Oh," Finch said. "Yes, I have. There's nothing like losing someone to clarify things." He took a shaking breath and moistened his lips, the memory of Reese's kiss still lingering. "I am still a really private person and I don't know if that will ever change. I always have been. But when you were gone, I realized how much a part of my life you had become. A dozen times a day, I found myself wishing I could tell you something, just small stuff, comments and observations. Sometimes, it was like I could hear you in my ear. Once, I--" He had to stop and clear his throat. "Once, I even caught myself talking to you. That was the night that I walked away from the library. I thought that was my place of refuge, my sanctuary, but without you it was empty."

"I'm sorry," Reese said, bowing his head and resting his forehead against Finch's, his eyes closing. "I guess you were right to keep your distance."

"No," Finch said, reaching up to cup Reese's cheek, his stubble rough against Finch's palm. "I was being safe and logical, but if we distance ourselves too much, if we lose touch with our humanity, we run the risk of forgetting why we do the job." The elevator began to slow and he took a bracing breath. "I didn't say this earlier because I didn't want you to think that I felt obligated to reciprocate, but I love you, too, and I am a better man for it."

Reese didn't say anything, he just smiled and stole Finch's breath away with another deep, slow kiss. Too soon, the elevator came to a stop and the doors slid open. Finch groaned and pulled away from Reese. "The camera reactivates thirty seconds after the doors open," he explained.

Reese chuckled. "Has anyone ever told you how brilliant you are?"

"A few times," Finch said dryly as he stepped into the alcove between the elevator and his front door. He was the only one with an elevator key, but he still liked the extra security of a good, solid front door.

"Has anyone ever told you how dead sexy that is?" Reese asked, stepping up behind him as he unlocked the deadbolt, Reese's breath warm on his neck.

Finch paused to consider his question, then shook his head. "Not to my recollection, no."

"Shame on them," Reese whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of Finch's ear and making him shiver.

Finch opened the door and stepped through, turning on the light as he moved aside and allowed Reese into his apartment. It was owned by one of his shadow companies, of course, under the pretense of a guest residence for important foreign clients and investors, and was a place he rarely visited.

"Nice place, Finch," Reese said, his gaze sweeping the vast, open rooms and the sprawling view of Manhattan. He gestured to the floor-to-ceiling windows. "So much for privacy."

"They're tinted," Finch said, "like a two-way mirror. We can see out, but no one can see in."

Reese smirked at him, a knowing, teasing smile.

Finch unbuttoned his suit jacket and shrugged out of it as he headed for the kitchen. "Can I get you some refreshment?" he asked, draping his jacket over the back of the sofa and loosening his tie as he tried to remember what was stocked in the apartment. "I have several nice wines, an old bottle of scotch, maybe a cold beer or two..."

"I'm fine, thank you," Reese said, making a slow circuit of the living room, dining room, and kitchen areas before leaning his forearms on the marble countertop of the island that separated the two of them. "I wouldn't mind a tour, though," he said, his voice soft and husky.

"Of course," Finch said. "Where are my manners? This way." He could sense Reese's eagerness, his impatience, feelings he shared, and it was with as much masochism as sadism that he led Reese through the apartment, into the den, the office, the gym, and the library.

"Do you own the entire thirty-fifth floor?" Reese asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

"More or less," Finch said, heading for the next room.

"So which is it -- more, or less?"

"More," Finch admitted. "I own the building. But that's hardly relevant," he added as Reese started to laugh. "If you'll follow me, I believe this may be what you've been waiting for." They stepped into the large master bedroom, the queen-sized bed the centerpiece of the ash and rosewood bedroom set, the silver accents gleaming in the afternoon light.

"I thought you said you didn't have ulterior motives for bringing me here," Reese said.

"I said you needed to rest, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "I only have the one bed, and it didn't seem very hospitable of me to put you on the sofa."

"That's so kind of you, Mr. Finch," Reese said, moving toward him. Finch braced himself for Reese's assault, and was surprised when Reese stepped past him. "If it's not an imposition, I could really do with a shower," Reese said, walking toward one of two closed doors. "I've had nothing but sponge baths for the last five weeks."

"Wait, that's not the bathroom," Finch said, but too late. Reese opened the door and stepped inside, turning on the light a moment later. Finch felt the color rise into his face at the resulting silence.

"Holy shit, Finch," Reese said finally, his voice muffled from inside the closet. "I've stayed in hotel rooms that were smaller than this."

"Mr. Reese, would you please come out of there?" Finch said, taking a step toward the door.

Reese emerged, looking honestly shocked. "How many ties do you _have_?"

"I don't exactly know," he said shortly, closing the door and pointing to the other one. "The bathroom is through there."

"Oh, dear," Reese said, a predatory gleam in his eye. "Did I hit a nerve? Are we feeling insecure about our tie obsession?"

"It's not--" Finch began, but stopped himself, refusing to rise to Reese's bait. "Do you need help finding the shower, Mr. Reese?" he asked.

"If the bathroom is as big as your closet, I just might," Reese said with a broad grin.

Finch just sighed and shook his head. Chuckling, Reese stepped over to him, delivering another soft kiss to his lips, Reese's fingers curling around his tie and Finch resisted for only a moment when Reese began backing toward the bathroom door. They stopped in the doorway to kick off their shoes, Finch's tie fluttering to the floor a moment later. As Reese divested him of his waistcoat, Finch fumbled for the light switch, bathing the pale blue room in bright, clear light, Reese's lips leaving a trail of hot, searing kisses down the side of Finch's neck. Finch groaned, his eyes sliding closed as his hands found the front of Reese's shirt, making short work of the tiny buttons. Pressing his palms to Reese's firm, smooth chest, he savored the feel of the silky skin--

Finch drew back, lowering his gaze to Reese's chest, to the new, pink scars rough against his fingertips. Reese fell still, watching him. Very softly, Finch traced each of the injuries -- the bullet hole, the surgical incision to remove the fractured slug, and farther back on his side, the incision for the chest tube -- his own healed wounds aching in sympathy.

"Are you all right?" Finch asked. Reese had almost died, an experience they shared, and one that Finch had struggled with long after the physical scars faded.

Reese hesitated. "I don't know," he finally said. "When I was leaving the hospital, Carter saw me and she drew her weapon and pointed it at me, and...and I felt afraid. I've never been afraid of guns, Finch. So no, I don't imagine that I am all right, but I'm going to do whatever it takes to get past this. I won't let it stop me from doing my job."

"That's not why I was asking," Finch said.

"I know," Reese said, an almost scary intensity in his dark blue eyes, "but you need to know that, and if-- when something happens to me, I need you to promise that you won't give up again. Find someone else. Our work is too important."

"I tried to find someone else," Finch said. "I went through my old list, but there were reasons why those men were distant second choices to you. They had the skills, but they didn't have the need or the passion or the moral compass that you do. Half of them were on drugs or in jail or needed psychiatric help." He swallowed hard. "Walking away was the hardest thing I had ever done, but it was easier than replacing you."

"Then that is something we need to do," Reese said. "I'll help you find a replacement." Finch opened his mouth to argue, but Reese didn't give him a chance to speak. "We need to be realistic and practical," he said. "You know what I'm saying makes sense."

He was right. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it," Finch said.

"This is just in case," Reese said. "I don't plan on letting myself get killed any time soon, and certainly not before I get the chance to make love to you. Again. Now-" He flashed a broad smile that made Finch's breath catch in his throat. "How about that shower? I just got out of the hospital; I may need some help washing my back."

The thought of Reese in the shower, his skin slick with soap and water, gave little doubt as to what would happen if Finch joined him. Ignoring his growing arousal, Finch licked dry lips and glanced nervously around the room, his gaze falling upon a better idea. "Are you sure you feel up to something that strenuous?" Finch asked. "Perhaps a nice hot, relaxing bath would be better."

Reese arched an eyebrow and looked over his shoulder, his grin widening at the sight of the big Jacuzzi tub in the corner of the room. "Oh, Finch, you delightful man," he murmured, limping over and turning on the faucet. While the tub filled, they finished undressing each other, Reese running his hands over Finch's bare skin with undisguised adoration and hunger. When the tub was full, Finch turned on the jets and they climbed in, both of them groaning as the heat and surging water closed around their bodies. Finch sat between Reese's legs, leaning back against the taller man, those strong arms wrapping around him. Finch closed his eyes and sighed, relaxing within his lover's safe and protective embrace.

"How's your neck feel?" Reese asked after a while and Finch reluctantly forced his eyes open, his glasses fogged over with steam. He'd almost fallen asleep.

"About the same as usual," Finch replied, "and if you're worried about causing me discomfort, you should know that we've already had this discussion. I hurt, but I don't want that to stop you."

"I see," Reese said. "And did it? The first time, I mean. Did it hurt you?"

"Any pain it caused me was more than worth it," Finch said, "and honestly, it wasn't bad. No worse than sitting at a desk for a few hours, but infinitely more rewarding."

"I'm glad," Reese said, leaning down and kissing Finch's neck behind his ear. His hands began to wander, gliding over slippery skin, and Finch shivered as Reese stroked down his stomach, fingertips ghosting along Finch's hard cock.

"Careful there, Mr. Reese," Finch warned, his voice low and raspy. "You don't remember, but I'm not as young as you think I am. Maybe we should take this to the bedroom."

"You read my mind, Finch," Reese all but purred, but he couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself as they climbed out of the tub and dried off. They were still damp when Reese finally had enough stalling. He took the towel out of Finch's hands, letting it fall to the floor as he pulled Finch up against him, both of them groaning as their bodies pressed together, warm and soft and hard in all the right places. As they made their way into the bedroom, Finch reluctantly drew back.

"Did you bring protection?" he asked.

Reese stared at him, nonplussed, and Finch had to fight to keep from laughing. "Right, because my first thought after recovering from amnesia and escaping from the police was to buy condoms. Are you worried about catching something from me?"

"No" Finch said levelly. "I went over your medical records before I approached you, and after you were shot trying to prevent Judge Gates' son from being kidnapped, I sent a blood sample to a lab for a wide range of tests. You're clean, as am I, however, I just abhor the mess of unprotected sex."

The expression on Reese face was priceless as he drew a great breath and sighed. "Where's the nearest drug store?" he asked, turning to go back into the bathroom for his clothes.

"Well, hang on a minute," Finch said, smirking as he made his way over to the bedside table and opened the drawer. He pulled out an unopened three-pack of condoms and a tube of water-based lubricant with the safety seal still intact. "It looks like we're in luck," he said, opening the box and taking out one of the small foil packets.

"Dare I ask?" Reese said, arching an eyebrow as he crossed the room.

"It's not a crime to be prepared, Mr. Reese," Finch said, glancing at the tube to make sure it didn't have an expiration date. "I seem to remember someone pulling an obscenely large rifle out of the trunk of a car not too many months ago, and you didn't hear me questioning _your_ integrity."

" _Touché_ , Finch," Reese said with a laugh, reaching out to take the condom from him.

Finch pulled it back out of his grasp. "My house," he said, studying Reese's reaction, "my condom, my turn." He was prepared for an argument, but Reese just stared back at him for a moment, then a slow smile graced those wonderfully expressive lips and he turned, spreading himself across the bed, lying upon his stomach on the comforter in a pose of wanton abandon, his legs spread and his cheek pillowed on his bent arms, a look of dark, smoldering need in his intense blue eyes.

For several moments, Finch just stood there, admiring the view, then he turned and hobbled back into the bathroom. "I'll be right back," he said, tearing open the foil packet with his teeth. His hands shook as he put it on, his heart beating hard and fast. It had been such a long time. Could he even do this? In theory, his body should be able to bear the strain, the positions, the repetitive motions, but theory and practice were two different things. It would have been so much easier, safer, to lie there and let Reese do all the heavy lifting, so to speak, but he needed to prove that he could, that he was an equal partner in the relationship, not to Reese, of course, but to himself.

Taking one of the smaller towels off the shelf, he returned to the bedroom and tossed it to Reese. "No wet spots on the linens, please," he said. Reese obediently shook it out and tucked it beneath him, his breathing growing fast as Finch found a position that wasn't too uncomfortable, sitting at Reese's hip. He reached out, laying a light hand upon the back of Reese's thigh, eliciting a shiver as he caressed the soft skin, his hand drifting up over Reese's posterior, to the small of his back and down again. It felt so good just to touch him, to make such a personal, physical connection with another human being.

Reese lay quietly, not seeming to mind Finch's dawdling, but when Finch finally peeled off the safety plastic and opened the tube of lubricant, Reese let slip an indecent moan and raised his ass in the air, letting his impatience be known. Finch squeezed a dollop of lube out onto his fingertips and smeared it across Reese's opening. As Finch eased a finger into him, he heard Reese's breath catch, his body tensing.

"Try to relax," Finch said softly, suddenly wondering if Reese had ever done this before. "Take deep breaths. I won't hurt you."

"I know," Reese said, his voice a smoky whisper. "It's just...you're only the second-- well, the third man that I've let do this. I'm a little out of practice."

"Third, hmm?" Finch said, moving slowly, carefully, and judiciously adding more lubricant. "Am I correct in assuming that Jade was one of them?"

"That's right," Reese said, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"And the other?"

"My proctologist," Reese said with a chuckle, "so I suppose that doesn't count."

"Not unless he also bought you breakfast," Finch said dryly. He fell silent, turning his focus to finding and stimulating Reese's prostate, testing his reaction with a light, easy touch. Reese groaned, his body shaking as he pushed back against Finch, his toes curling as his legs shifted restlessly. "How does that feel, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked, his lips quirking in a small smirk as Reese panted and moaned, making incoherent noises. There was something intensely satisfying about seeing the strong, controlled man come completely undone at his hand.

Finch added a second finger and Reese tensed again, but only for a moment. Finch stretched him gently, scissoring his fingers to loosen that ring of muscle.

"Please...please, Finch-- Harold...please..." Reese whispered, his voice hoarse and ragged.

Finch smiled to himself. Unlike Reese, he had no preference which name was used, since neither was his given name and he answered to both. Finch withdrew, squeezed another dollop of lubricant onto his fingers, and slowly worked three digits in and out of Reese's tight, trembling body. When he was sure Reese was relaxed enough, he stroked his prostate for another moment, making him pant and shake.

"Are you ready?" Finch asked.

"Oh, God, Finch - Please...I want you-- I _need_ you inside me."

Pulling out, Finch wiped his slippery fingers on the towel beneath Reese before climbing onto the bed and kneeling between Reese's legs. The scarred muscle in his hip burned dully as he stretched out over Reese, bracing one hand on the bed at Reese's side and using the other to guide himself to Reese's entrance. Not used to bearing so much weight, a tremor ran up his arm, sending a sharp pain through his neck and he stopped, drawing short breaths as he waited for it to pass.

"Finch? Is everything all right?"

"More or less," Finch replied, and before he had to admit that it was less, he said, "This might be easier if you lie flat."

Reese lowered his ass, reaching back and sliding one hand beneath himself to adjust his erection. "Better?"

Finch didn't reply, except to brace himself on his forearm instead, which took care of the trembling. Letting his body mold against the man beneath him, Finch leaned down and kissed Reese's shoulders and neck as he shifted his hips, pressing against Reese's opening. He felt Reese's breath catch, his muscles tensing, and Finch stopped, waiting patiently until Reese relaxed and allowed him inside.

Pressing his lips to the crook of Reese's neck, Finch groaned softly as he slid deep, his cock so unbelievably hard within that tight, hot flesh. His chest pressed against Reese's broad, strong back, Finch slid his arms beneath the taller man, holding him close. "This isn't too much weight on your chest, is it?" Finch asked. He had been shot there just five weeks ago.

"There's a bit of an ache," Reese admitted, for which Finch was glad. He wouldn't have believed him if Reese had said everything was fine. Reese shifted his arm to the side, letting it take some of the weight so his chest wasn't pressed so hard against the bed. "That's better."

"Are you sure? Because I could--"

"No, you stay where you are," Reese said. "You feel so good."

"So do you," Finch murmured, kissing Reese's shoulder again as he began to rock his hips, barely pulling out before pressing back in, as deep as he could get, reveling in the closeness, the intimacy, and the delicious noises that Reese made beneath him. Finch would have liked to make love to Reese all afternoon and into the evening hours, but he was only human, at the mercy of the thoughts, emotions, and sensations that overwhelmed his cool, rational control, driving him to thrust faster, harder, his harsh, ragged breath falling upon the side of Reese's neck.

"Oh...Oh, Harold," Reese gasped suddenly, a long, shuddering moan escaping him as his body suddenly tensed, his hips bucking, and Finch saw stars as Reese tightened around him. After longer than Finch thought possible, Reese went limp beneath him, his panting broken only by the occasional shiver and whimper.

Finch hesitated. "Do you want me to stop now?" he asked.

"Don't you dare," Reese told him, "and I better hear you come."

"I'm hardly a screamer, Mr. Reese," Finch said dryly.

"John," Reese corrected.

Finch smiled. "Yes, John." He kissed Reese's shoulder again and whispered, "My John."

Beneath him, Reese drew a shuddering breath and sighed. "Say that again."

"My John..." Finch shifted, drawing his knees farther beneath him for better leverage. It made the scar tissue at his hip ache, but it was a small price to pay for the intense climax that soon thundered through him. He stiffened, burying himself to the hilt within Reese as a strangled and somewhat unexpected cry escaped his lips. Dazed and spent, Finch collapsed on top of Reese, trembling inside as he fought to catch his breath. "My John," he said again, his arms tightening around Reese's torso.

"Yours," Reese murmured, "for always."

It was a shame they couldn't have remained as they were for always, but too soon Finch felt the familiar protestations of his body returning, the dull ache in his hip becoming a sharp, hot pain, and he reluctantly climbed off Reese, lowering himself gingerly to the bed and rolling onto his back, the air suddenly cold without the warmth of Reese's body.

After a moment, Reese sat up, a contented smile on his face as he pulled the towel out from under himself and proceeded to clean them up. Finch watched, projecting a cool and calm demeanor, but underneath, his stomach was tied in knots. Unlike the first time, he didn't have the luxury of his own tangled emotions to distract him from the looming question of _What now?_

Before Finch's hurried escape from the hotel room, Reese had said something about them having lunch, with the implication that they would remain together afterward and most likely engage in another bout of mutually pleasurable sexual activity. While Finch wasn't opposed to such a plan, it seemed rather...base and shallow. However, he wasn't sure he could handle deep and meaningful conversation. His long-ingrained need for privacy balked at the thought of freely sharing personal information, even with the man he loved.

 _Love._ Finch felt suddenly short of breath and he gasped, trembling inside as Reese slid up beside him, his movements cautious as he draped an arm over Finch's chest. "Are you okay?" Reese asked. "You're shaking."

Finch let out a self-deprecating laugh that had an alarming hint of hysteria in it. "I'm fine, Mr. Reese. I just...Have you ever experienced a moment where you realized something you thought you already knew? Where you say something, and you absolutely mean what you say, but it isn't until later that you really understand the meaning of what you said? Does that even make sense or am I just babbling?" he asked, removing his glasses and rubbing a hand wearily over his face.

"It makes perfect sense," Reese said, relaxing against him and tilting his head to rest against Finch's, a gesture Finch found unexpectedly sweet. After a moment, Reese drew a deep breath. "So, what do you think about going back to the library in the morning?"

"Do you really think you're up to that?" Finch asked, a small frown creasing his brow. "You were shot."

"I've been shot before," Reese replied.

 _Not in the head_ , Finch thought, but it seemed cruel to say it out loud. And unnecessary. "You may be an exceptional individual, Mr. Reese, but you are not superhuman. I am haunted by the numbers more than you could ever know, but sometimes logic must dictate our actions so that we may do the greatest good. Sending you out in a compromised condition is asking for failure, or worse. You can't help anyone if you're dead."

"Are you sure it's logic that's driving that argument, Finch?" Reese asked quietly.

Finch shifted so he could look over at Reese. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, are you going to be able to send me out there into dangerous situations where I could be hurt or killed? Because if you can't, we need to have a long talk about which part of this relationship we want to keep."

"Ah," Finch said, settling himself back against the warmth of Reese's body. It had been difficult enough to condone bringing in a partner, someone who would be facing the brunt of the danger, and Finch had assuaged his guilt by choosing the best, a man who could handle any situation and -- perhaps as importantly -- a man in need of redemption who would accept the danger as part of his penance, but now that partner was no longer a stranger. He was someone Finch didn't want to lose.

But many of the numbers were people whom somebody didn't want to lose, too. Could he really place more value on any one life? Could he play God? He took a slow breath and let it out again. He wanted to. He wanted to be selfish and tell Reese that he couldn't do it anymore, but they both needed this job too much. It was a burden, a responsibility, a penance, and a gift. All those numbers, all those people, the innocent people who had no other hope -- he could not allow them to be deleted at midnight like so much irrelevant data.

"Will you be more careful?" Finch asked finally. It was the only thing he _could_ ask of Reese.

"I'll try," Reese said. "I don't want to lose you, either. You've given me more than a purpose, you've given me a reason to live."

"Then we can return to work," Finch said, "but not tomorrow. Tomorrow you'll start rehabilitating that arm and leg. I'll make arrangements for you to see Dr. Tillman and we'll have those tests done that she wanted. I want to know that you're in peak condition -- or at least moderate-to-good condition -- before I send you back out there."

"All right, Harold, you win," Reese said with a theatrical sigh, then he sat up. "Where's your phone?"

"In my jacket pocket," Finch said, hoping Reese wasn't planning on ordering pizza. Not that there was anything to eat in the apartment otherwise, but it meant that one of them would have to get dressed and go down to the lobby to pick it up and pay, and if they were going to go that far, they might as well just go out to a nice restaurant. "Why?"

"As long as we're erring on the side of caution," Reese said, a hint of a smirk in his voice, "I thought I'd call Megan and ask if she thinks I'm healthy enough to make love to you."

Finch regarded him for a moment before deciding that he was probably joking. "It wasn't enough that you outed me to everyone in the office, now you need to share my personal life with the good doctor, too?"

Reese chuckled and gave him a sheepish look. "Sorry about that. But I think they handled it well, don't you?"

"What were they supposed to do, stone us?"

Reese just shrugged.

"Well," Finch continued, "at least I won't have to fend off any more drunken advances at the company Christmas party." He watched Reese struggle with how to express his disbelief without being insulting.

"Really?" Reese said finally and Finch smirked to himself.

"Yes, hard to believe anyone in their right mind would be interested in this old, four-eyed geek, isn't it?" he asked, unable to resist taking a shot at Reese. Before Reese could form a rebuttal, Finch said, "Any other day of the year, they were the nicest three women you could ever meet, but get a couple glasses of spiked eggnog or hot buttered rum into them and they turned into jackals, singling out the weakest members of the herd. I suppose the tactic was to lessen the chance for rejection by choosing the most pathetic, most desperate men in the office--"

"Or maybe they realized that you're a good man, Harold," Reese said. "One does not have to know that you moonlight as a vigilante superhero to see that." He flashed a warm, sincere smile. "So why did you go, if you hated the party that much?"

"It was expected," Finch said. "I was trying to blend in, to not draw attention. And..." He hesitated, surprised by the urge to share a piece of his past, and a personal one, at that. "And for many years, there was someone there that I wanted to see." He waited for Reese to ask, to pry, to begin the interrogation, but the younger man just sat there, and Finch felt muscles that he hadn't even realized he'd been tensing start to relax.

"We met in college," Finch said. "I was an undergraduate, he was a freshman. A shared interest in books and computer technology, which was still in its infancy back then, led to an unexpected friendship, though I must confess that the feelings ran much deeper for me. After I got my degree, I allowed myself to lose touch with him, but when I decided to start up my software company, I discovered that I loathed the thought of losing my privacy, my anonymity. I needed a partner, someone who could be the face of the company and handle all the public relations nonsense, leaving me free to work. I looked him up and was chagrined to discover that my feelings for him had not changed, but I could think of no one else capable and trustworthy enough to protect my privacy.

"It got easier -- and more difficult -- as the years went by and the company grew. We were both so busy, we rarely saw each other, except at the company Christmas party."

"Did you ever tell him how you felt?" Reese asked, his voice soft.

Finch nodded. "It took twenty-five years and half a bottle of Scotch, but yes, I did. It was after some awards banquet. He stopped by the office where I was working and talked me into having a drink to celebrate. One drink turned into a few, and I finally confessed. I suppose I always assumed he knew how I felt and chose to ignore it, but he swore he had no idea. I think it was as much the Scotch as curiosity that made him kiss me, and I came that close to letting him have me on top of my desk, but even as drunk as I was, I knew it would have been a mistake. I put him in a taxi and sent him home. I was afraid things would become strained between us, but he called me the next afternoon and asked if we could have dinner together. The rest, as they say, is history."

"When did he die?" Reese asked after a moment and Finch felt his shell reflexively snap shut, guarding himself against a perceived threat. It was an effort to convince himself that this wasn't an attack.

"A couple of years ago," he said and there must have been something in his tone because Reese immediately backed off.

"I'm sorry," he said and climbed off the bed. He paused, groaning as he stretched his arms over his head, and Finch's gaze traced the long, clean line of his naked body. "I'm going to go get a glass of water," Reese said. "Do you want anything?"

"No, thank you," Finch said, arching an eyebrow as Reese headed for the door. "There's a bathrobe hanging on the back of the bathroom door."

Reese glanced back, his mouth pulled into a crooked grin. "I thought you said the windows were tinted."

"Yes, they are..." He trailed off as Reese walked out, stark naked. Finch rolled his eyes and slowly sat up, resting his hands on his thighs as he carefully rocked his head from side to side, from front to back, as far as the injury would allow, to stretch his scarred muscles. He was just finishing when Reese returned, a glass of water in his hand.

"Neck hurt?" he asked, crossing the room with the casual confidence of a man who had grown up in a nudist colony.

"Taking preventative measures," Finch said as Reese set the glass down beside the pack of condoms.

"Here, let me help," Reese said, climbing onto the bed.

"Mr. Reese--" Finch protested as Reese slid into position behind him.

"Harold," Reese countered, placing his hands firmly on Finch's shoulders, "I know that you're a strong and independent man, and that you can deal with your pain all on your own, but just because you _can_ doesn't mean you _have to._ Letting me care about you doesn't make you weak."

"You've used that line before," Finch said, his breath hitching as Reese began to massage around his tight and wounded muscles.

"It's a good line," Reese said, "and it's true. And besides, you have to keep in mind what sort of a man _I_ am. I want to protect people, and that includes you, whether it's from hitmen, assassins, and mob-bosses, or from the pain in your own body."

"You can't make it stop," Finch said quietly, surrendering with a sigh to the tender ministrations of those big, strong hands.

"I know," Reese said, "but I can help."

His eyes sliding closed, Finch groaned, his breathing falling into a slow and easy rhythm as Reese worked his shoulders and neck, drawing the pain and tension to the surface and siphoning it away, leaving his skin warm and his body relaxed. After about ten minutes, he sighed and opened his eyes.

"That feels amazing, John," he said. "Now I need to find something that I can do for you in return." Hands shifted down to the middle of his back and Finch felt Reese's warm breath against his ear.

"You already did," Reese murmured.

Finch drew a sharp breath, his back arching, pressing him more firmly against Reese's hands, as Reese kissed the side of his neck. "You're insatiable," Finch groaned, though he wasn't really complaining. Reese shifted closer, his arms wrapping around Finch, and Finch let himself be pulled back against Reese's chest. Finch gasped, a startled cry escaping him as Reese pressed his open mouth to the crook of Finch's neck, teeth scraping across skin as Reese bit and sucked at his flesh. "Mr. Reese, you're damaging my capillaries."

Reese raised his head. "If by that you mean I'm giving you a big hickey, then yes, I am. Don't worry, I'll keep them under your clothes."

"Them?" He shuddered as Reese nipped across the back of his neck before settling over his pulse, kissing and sucking in a most arousing fashion. Reese moaned into his neck, making him shiver, those big hands moving down Finch's body to grasp his hardening cock.

"And _I'm_ the insatiable one?" Reese teased, his calloused fingers moving lightly over Finch's sensitive flesh, making him squirm. "I have good news, Finch," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Finch's ear. "When I was out getting a glass of water, I called Dr. Tillman, and while she said I should have called her _before_ I let you give me the greatest orgasm of my life, she thinks I can survive making love to you. She also said it might be a good idea for us to stay in bed as much as possible for the rest of the day."

"While I don't doubt you capable of such brazen and unabashed audacity," Finch said, struggling to keep his voice even, "you weren't gone long enough to make such a call." He took a shuddering breath. "So how do you want me?"

"However is most comfortable," Reese said, reaching over to the nightstand and grabbing one of the two remaining condoms out of the pack. "You know your limitations better than I do, so I'll trust your judgment, but if something hurts, I want you to tell me. I know you're used to hiding your pain, to bearing it alone, but you're not alone anymore." His strong arms encircled Finch once more, but there was something different about this embrace, something tender, a touch meant for giving and seeking comfort, companionship, love.

Finch reached up, finding one of Reese's hands and squeezing it. "You're not alone, either." Reese drew a shuddering breath, his grip tightening, and Finch had to swallow down a sudden lump in his throat. It was a new experience, this intense emotion that resonated within him to the very marrow of his bones. In another time and place, he might have taken a few minutes or an afternoon to dissect and analyze the feeling, to quantify and categorize and file it away for future reference, but just then it was enough to simply let it dwell within him.

After a moment, Reese kissed his shoulder again and pulled away. While he put on the condom, Finch fussed with the pillows and debated sexual positions. Each had pros and cons, but in the end, there was only one choice. He lay back on the bed, handing Reese the lube as he climbed onto the bed between Finch's legs.

"Missionary?" Reese asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I want to see your face," Finch explained, earning a warm smile from Reese. He hesitated. "I'm going to need a little help with the leg, though. I have a good range of motion, as you may have noticed when you threw me to the floor in the long-term evidence lockup."

Reese winced. "Sorry about that."

"Don't worry about it," Finch said, but he couldn't resist adding, "That was a picnic compared to when you slammed me against the doorjamb in that hotel room."

"I was hungover," Reese said in his defense, his eyes sparkling with the smile his lips resisted, "and you had just scared the hell out of me."

"Desperate times, Mr. Reese," Finch said with a ghost of a smile. "Now, about my leg. The muscles in my hip and thigh were damaged. The scar tissue is stiff and aches, but the real pain comes when I try to use the muscles themselves, so this shouldn't be too uncomfortable if you raise my leg for me." He found it easier to talk about if he viewed it at arm's length, as though he were speaking about an old, broken-down machine, but he still waited with a growing sense of dread for Reese's reaction. He didn't want pity.

Reese placed a hand on Finch's ankle, the other sliding beneath his knee, and the look in his eyes had nothing to do with pity as he slowly lifted Finch's leg. "How does that feel?" he asked, dragging his knuckles down the back of Finch's thigh.

"It's fine," Finch said, his breath catching as Reese leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the inside of his knee, his lips warm and breath tickling the delicate skin. Finch gasped as Reese's lips parted, his teeth and tongue abusing the pale flesh, sucking until he left a dark mark. He drew back, looking quite pleased with his handiwork as he ran a finger over the tingling bruise.

Shifting his body, Reese placed Finch's foot against his chest to free up his hands and Finch drew his other leg up as Reese emptied the tube of lubricant onto his fingers. "Looks like we're going to need to go shopping," Reese said, tossing the empty container onto the nightstand as he began preparing Finch, gently working slippery fingers in and out of his body.

"We'll find a drug store when we go out to dinner," Finch said, his eyes closing as he concentrated on staying relaxed.

"I thought we'd order in," Reese said, his fingertips finding and teasing Finch's prostate.

"Absolutely not," Finch replied, rubbing his hand back and forth across his stomach, resisting the urge to stroke himself as Reese filled him with a deep and resounding ache. "I know a little place...a few blocks away...They have the best fresh oysters in the city," he panted, arching his back as Reese rubbed relentlessly against that bundle of nerves.

"Oysters, hmmm?" Reese murmured. "It looks to me like we don't need those."

Finch gasped as the warmth of Reese's hand surrounded his cock, stroking the shaft in time with the thrusts of his fingers. "Oh, hell, John -- You're going to make me-"

Reese pulled back, withdrawing his fingers and leaving Finch out of breath and empty, his body aching with need. He moaned like a cat in heat as Reese grabbed his leg again, deftly sliding into place and bracing Finch's heel against the small of his back. One hand gripped Finch's thigh, the other guiding his cock to Finch's entrance. Finch took a deep, slow breath as Reese eased inside, stretching him, filling him, and he let it out in one long groan.

"Is this okay?" Reese asked, shifting his hand from his cock to the bed beside Finch's ribs and leaning over him. In reply, Finch reached up, cupping the back of Reese's neck and pulling him down for a fevered kiss. Reese made desperate noises into his mouth, his hips rocking as he sank balls-deep into Finch.

Finch slid his hands down to Reese's broad shoulders, gripping and kneading the muscles as Reese thrust into him, as hard and fast as the first time had been slow and tender. Finch found the change...reassuring. He didn't want to be treated like glass.

"Is this...okay?" Reese gasped.

"Yes...yes..." Finch whispered, clutching at him. He needed this.

Soon, Reese's movements grew quick and urgent, his skin flushing, his pupils dilating as he stared down into Finch's eyes, his face so open and vulnerable. " _Harold_ ," he whispered, stiffening as he came. Finch had never seen anything so beautiful and fascinating, and for a moment, he forgot himself as he watched a thousand micro-expressions parade across Reese's face. It was like watching a sunset; one of the true wonders of the universe.

Gasping and shuddering, Reese slowed his thrusts, sliding deep and holding himself there until he began to soften. He leaned down, capturing Finch's lips as he gently lowered Finch's bad leg back to the bed, the shift in position causing him to slip out. Unsatisfied and aching, Finch groaned as Reese wrapped a hand around his shaft, rubbing his thumb through the thick pre-come that leaked from the slit.

Reese raised his head, licking kiss-swollen lips as he gazed down at Finch. "How's your pain?" Reese asked, beginning to stroke Finch's cock.

"What pain?" Finch replied, his fingers digging into Reese's back as he fought the urge to thrust in time with Reese's strokes. That _would_ cause him pain, but at the moment, all he felt was intense, frustrating pleasure. "John...John, please..."

"What, Harold?" Reese asked in that soft, maddening whisper of his. "What do you want?"

"You...you know what I want," Finch said, groaning as Reese pumped him hard and fast for a moment before settling back into a slower, teasing rhythm.

"Tell me," Reese said, leaning close, his lips hovering over Finch's. "I want to hear you say it."

"I want...John, I want--" He flushed. "I want to come. I want you to make me come."

"I love it when you talk dirty," Reese purred and Finch cried out as Reese stroked him to an intense and shuddering climax. Dazed and breathless, Finch could only lay there as Reese cleaned him up, wiping away the thick strings of semen on his stomach. He was almost no help as Reese drew the covers back, sliding them out from under him, before climbing back into bed, curling up against him, and pulling the blankets up over them both. As Reese's strong arms settled around him, Finch drew a deep breath and sighed.

"I wish we could stay right here forever," he said, finding Reese's hand under the covers and lacing their fingers together.

"What's stopping us?"

"Oh, natural bodily functions, for starters," Finch replied, earning a soft chuckle from Reese. "And I don't know about you, but all of this unusually strenuous activity has made me rather hungry."

"Yeah, my lunch was interrupted by an armed gunman," Reese said, his casual tone making Finch smile. They really were quite a pair. They lay together for several wonderful minutes before Finch reluctantly disengaged his hand from Reese's and climbed out of bed.

"All right, Mr. Reese, I'm going to go shower and then we can--"

"John," Reese interrupted, his intense gaze following Finch as he made his way around the bed.

Finch felt a tightness in his chest, a flutter in the pit of his stomach, as he stepped over to John's side of the bed and leaned down, kissing him softly. As he drew back, he said, "All right, John, if that's how it's going to be..." He leaned down, closed his eyes, and whispered his real name into John's ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is, he big, fluffy, smutty ending. If you liked it, if you didn't, I'd love to hear what you think. Thanks for reading and I hope to keep posting stories in this fandom. Reese/Finch is like air to me, lol.


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